Southern  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 

Los  Angeles 

Form  L-l 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


2   1923 
NOV  2  8   1923 


1  4  1923 
JUN  1  0  1925 


&<>  r 


.  «$* 


DEC  It    l«* 

JAN    31    1931 
8  1950* 


Form  L-9-5m-7,'23 


SMI  I   PS     PICTURES  BY 
^          *A~"~>     WILLVAWTER 


YOKED  WITH 
SIGHS 


BY  ROBERT  J.  BURDETTE 


'  Nobly  he  yokes 
A  smiling  with  a  sigh, 
As  if  the  sigh 
Was  that  it  was 
For  not  being  such  a  smile." 

CYMBELINE 


IND1ANAPOUS 


B.0WEN-MERRJ1X  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1900 

BY 
ROBERT  J.  BURDETTE 


IV 


TO   MY  WIKK 

CLARA 

HER  VOU'K  LIVES  T^  MY  WOKJ>!-4 
HKR  HAN'r)  MOVES  IN'  MY  \VOKK 
HER  HEART  THROBS  1^  MY  THOl'OHT 


r>     /"\     £T 
Cx*   ^*^     ^** 

5^3 


CONTENTS 


After  the  Battle 

All  Things  to  All  Men 

Aquarius 

Archaeological  Congress,  An 

Baby  Mine 

Brakeman's  Sweetheart,  The 

Bravest  of  the  Brave 

Cataracket,  A 

Comet,  The 

Consequences 

Countermarch,  The 

Cricket,  The 

Day  We  Do  Not  Celebrate,  The 

Dogmatic  Philosophy 

vii 


102 

93 

75 

i 

36 

83 

156 

116 

8 

'7 
62 

107 
96 

in 


Contents 


Don't  Fret 

Evening 

Festina  Lente 

Finis 

Funny  Old  Clown,  The 

Getting  Even 

Glory  in  the  Northwest 

Hod-Fellow,  The 

In  Medio  Tutissimus  Ibis 

Inside  Track,  The 

In  Time  of  Peace 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

Lines  to  a  Mule 

Main  Hatch,  The 

March 

Margins 

Master  Sleeps,  The 

May  Day 

Mendicant,  The 

Morning 

My  First  Cigar 

Odd  I  See,  The 

Old  Wine  in  New  Bottles 

On  the  Coast  of  Man 

Orphan  Born 

Pierian  Spring,  The 

Plaint  of.Jonah,  The 

Postmaster,  The 

Private's  Glorv,  The 


171 

85 

67 

178 

6 

77 
1  1 

53 
98 

33 
130 

'73 
119 
log 
126 
40 


65 
56 
3° 
iS9 
'47 
1  66 

"3 


Contents 


Pulmonic  Passion 

Putting  His  Armor  On 

Putty  Man,  The 

Realization 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 

Running  the  Weekly 

School  Ma'am,  The 

School  ''Takes  Up" 

Seedsman,  The 

Sic  Transit 

Sisyphus 

Soldier,  Rest! 

Songs  Without  Words 

Spell  of  Rhyme,  A 

Tramp,  The 

Trolley  La  La! 

Two  Rag  Men 

Utopia 

What  Lack  We  Yet? 


IX 


An  Archaeological  Congress 

,4O  A  ^ 

«  (r  I  ^HERE'S  none  can  tell  about  my  birth 
*•       For  I'  m  as  old  as  the  big  round  earth  ; 
Ye  young  Immortals  clear  the  track, 
j,      I'm  the  bearded  Joke  on  the  Carpet  tack." 


Thus  spoke 
A  Joke 

With  boastful  croak; 
And  as  he  said, 
Upon  his  head 

He  stood,  and  waited  for  the  tread    / 
i 


An  Archaeological  Congress 

Of  thoughtless  wight, 

Who,  in  the  night, 

Gets  up,  arrayed  in  garments  white, 

And  indiscreet, 

With  unshod  feet, 

Prowls  round  for  something  good  to  eat. 

But  other  Jokes 

His  speech  provokes; 

And  old,  and  bald,  and  lame,  and  gray, 

With  loftiest  scorn  they  say  him  Nay ; 

And  bid  him  hold  his  unweaned  tongue, 

For  they  were  blind  ere  he  was  young. 

So  hot 

They  grew, 

This  complot 

Crew, 

They  laid  a  plan 

To  catch  a  Man; 

That  all  the  clan 

Might  then  trepan 

His  skull  with  Jokes;   they  thus  began: 


An  Archaeological  Congress 


First  Mule,  his  heel  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  his  ribs  like  lightning  laid — 

And  back  recoiled — he  well  knew  why ; 
"Insurance  Man,"  he  faintly  sayed. 


Next  Stove  Pipe  rushed,  as  hot  as  fire, 
"Put  up!"  he  cried,  in  accents  bold; 
J, \With  Elbow  joint  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  knocked  the  Weather  Prophet  cold. 

But  thou,  Ice  Cream,  with  hair  so  gray, 
Three  thousand  years  before  the  Flood, 

Cold,  bitter  cold,  will  be  the  day 

Thou  dost  not  warm  the  Jester's  blood. 

"Spoons    for  the  spooney,"    was   her  ancient 
song, 

That  with  slow  measure  dragged  its  deathless 
length  along. 

And  longer  had  she  sung,  but  with  a  frown, 

Old  Pie,  impatient,  rose 
And  roared,  "  Behold,  I  am  the  Funny  Clown  ! 

And  without  me  there  is  no  Joke  that  goes. 
3 


An  Archaeological  Congress 


To  every  Jester  in  the  land, 
I  lend  my  omnipresent  hand ; 
I've  filled  in  Jokes  of  every  grade 
Since  ever  Jokes  and  Pies  were  made ; 
Sewed,  pegged  and  pasted,  glued  or  cast, 
If  not  the  first  of  Jokes,  I'll  be  the  last." 


With  heart  unripe  and  mottled  hide, 
Pale  summer  watermcloncholly  sighed, 
And — but  the  Muse  would  find  it  vain 
To  give  a  list  of  all  the  train ; 
The  hairless,  purblind,  toothless  crew, 
That  burst  on  Man's  astonished  view — 
The  Bull  dog  and  the  Garden  gate; 
The  Girl's  Papa  in  wrathful  state; 
Ma'ma  in  law;    the  Leathern  Clam  ; 
The  Woodshed  Cat;    the  Rampant  Ram 
The  Fly,  the  Goat,  the  Skating  Rink, 
The  Paste-brush  plunging  in  the  Ink; 
The  Baby  wailing  in  the  Dark ; 
The  Songs  they  sang  upon  the  Ark ; 


An  Archaeological  Congress 

Things  that  were  old  when  Earth  was  new, 
And  as  they  lived  still  old  and  older  grew, 
And  as  these  Jokes  about  him  cried, 
And  all  their  Ancient  Arts  upon  him  tried, 
Their  hapless  victim,  Man,  lay  down  and  died. 


The  Funny  Old  Clown 


Century  Plant,  I  love  thy  bismuthed 
face, 

Thy  peaked  hat,  thy  grotesque  painted  smiles, 
Thy  hoary  jokes  that  with  an  antique  grace 
Make  plaintive  music  for  thy  antic  wiles ; 
I  love  thy  squalling  songs,  roared  out  of  tune, 

Thy  bearded,  old  conundrums  bald  and  blind — 
The  mellow  beauty  of  the  afternoon 

That  years  untold  through  all  thy  wit  hath 
shined. 


The  Funny  Old  Clown 


Friend  of  my  childhood,  thou  art  never  old; 

No  heart  hath  he  who  says  thy  wit  is  stale ; 
Warm  is  the  soul  that  loves  the  jest  thrice  told, 

And  dear  the  friend  who  loves  the  twice-told 

tale. 
What  though  the  title  page  tells  all  the  rest? 

Must  all  our  mirth  be  shiny  with  veneer? 
* 
Are  not  the  oldest  songs  of  all  the  best? 

The  oldest  friends  of  all  dear  friends  most 
dear? 


What  then?     The  little  ones  are  pleased  with 

thee, 

And  in  their  childish  plaudits,  sweet  and  clear, 
The  old,  dead  laughter  of  my  boyish  glee, 

Once  more  called  back  to  life,  again  I  hear. 
I  laugh,  with  echoes  of  old  laughter  blent, 
To  think  how  new  and  bright  thy  jokes  were 

then, 
So,  every  year,  I  seek  the  circus  tent 


And  shout  to  hear  thy  "Here  we  are  again  ! ' ' 

k- 


The  Comet 

ERCY  love  us ! 
Far  above  us 
See  the  comet  sloshin'  round. 
Fifty  million 
Billion  trillion 
Thousand  miles  above  the  ground. 


\ 

X*-: 


C-l 


With  a  tail 

Like  a  .whale, 
See  it  scoot  and  whiz  and  rare ! 

With  its  flipper 

In  the  "Dipper," 

How  it  riles  the  Major  "Bear"  ! 

8 


The  Comet 

Now  it's  try  in' 

For  O'Ryan, 
Irish  chap  that  killed  the  bull ; 

And  the  moon 

Pretty  soon 
Gives  the  comet's  tail  a  pull. 


Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Restless  sprite  of  sky  idees. 

Awful  pert, 

See  it  flirt 
With  the  seven  Pleiades. 


Unbeliever, 

Famine,  fever, 
Pestilence  and  plague  and  war, 

Fret  and  worry, 

Trouble,  hurry — 
That  is  what  a  comet's  for! 


The  Comet 

Lots  of  debt, 

Too  much  wet, 
Rain  and  hail  and  sleet  and  flood  ; 

Burning  drouth, 

Torrid  south, 
Sun  baked  fields  and  seas  of  mud  ! 


Blood  and  bones, 
Tears  and  groans, 

Gnashing  teeth  and  horrid  cries ; 
Howls  and  yowls, 
Frowns  and  scowls, 

That's  about  the  comet's  size. 


It  will  bring 

Everything 
That  is  bad  beneath  the  sun. 

How  it  hums ! 

Here  it  comes ! 
Goodness  gracious,  let  us  run! 


10 


Glory  in  the  Northwest 


f^ROM  Shediac  the  Canadian 

Marched  out  to  look  for  the  half-breed  man  ; 
And  ere  the  month  of  May  was  gone 
He  roped  him  up  in  Saskatchewan. 


From  Shubenacodie  and  Memrancook 
His  weary  way  the  volunteer  took ; 
From  Passakeag  and  Bartibogue, 
He  marched  away  to  corral  the  rogue. 
1 1 


Glory  in  the  Northwest 

From  Maguadavie  and  Stewiacke, 
Assametaquaghan  and  Peticodiac ; 
From  Rusiagonish  and  Ste.  Flavie 
Nauigewauk  and  Apohagui. 

From  several  places  that  I  can't  spell, 
And  some  that  I  can't  pronounce  as  well, 
They  chased  the  half-breed  over  the  plains 
And  knocked  him  out  with  their  easiest  names. 


Utopia 

\\  THAT  will  we  do  when  the  good  days  come, 
When  the  croaking  prophet's  lips  are 

dumb? 

When  the  man  who  reads  us  his  "little  things  " 
Has  lost  his  voice  with  the  dole  it  brings ; 
When  stilled  is  the  breath  of  the  whistling  man, 
And  the  yells  of  the  campaign  marching  clan ; 
When    the  neighbors'  children  have  lost  their 
drums — 

Oh,  what  will  we  do  when  the  good  time  comes? 
13 

1 


*   a     »     * 


Utopia 


Oh,  what  will  we  do  in  that  good,  blithe  time 
When  the  tramp  will  work — oh,  thought  sub 
lime! 

When  the  scornful  dame  with  the  weary  feet 
Will  "thank  you,  sir,"  for  the  proffered  seat; 
When  the  man  you  hire  to  work  by  the  day 
Will  let  you  do  his  work  your  way ; 
When  the  office  boy  will  call  you  "Sir," 
Instead  of  "Soy,"  and  "Governer;  " 
When  the  funny  man  is  humorsome — 
Oh,  how  can  we  stand  the  Millenium? 


w 


The  Plaint  of  Jonah 


HY  should  I  live,  when  every  day 
The  wicked  prospers  in  his  way, 


And  daily  adds  unto  his  hoard, 

While  cut  worms  smite  the  good  man's  gourd? 


When  I  would  rest  beneath  its  shade 
^Comes  the  shrill-voiced  book-selling  maid, 

And  smites  me  with  her  tireless  breath — 

N^ 
Then  am  I  angry  unto  death. 


The  Plaint  of  Jonah 

When  I  would  slumber  in  my  booth, 
Who  comes  with  accents  loud  and  smooth, 
And  talks  from  dawn  to  midnight  late? 
The  honest  labor  candidate. 


Who  pounds  mine  ear  with  noisy  talk. 
Whose  brazen  gall  no  ire  can  balk 
And  wearies  me  of  life's  short  span? 
The  accident  insurance  man 


And  when,  all  other  torments  flown, 
I  think  to  call  one  hour  mine  own, 
Who  takes  my  leisure  by  the  throat? 
The  villain  taking  up  a  vote. 


Consequences 


T  \  THEN  James  came  up  one  Sunday  night 

*   '        Aglow  with  love's  soft  flames, 
He  sought  the  sofa  where  she  sat, 
"So  fa,  so  good,"  said  James. 


A  year  thrice  told  has  come  and  gone 
With  joys  and  hopes  and  bother; 

There  stands  a  crib  where  the  sofa  did, 
Says  James,  "A  little  father." 
17 


Running  the  Weekly 


TN  the  twilight  in  his  sanctum  sat  the  editor 

alone.  v 

And  his  mighty  brain  was  throbbing   in  a  very 

lofty  tone ; 

But    he   checked   a    deathless   poem,    that  was 
fraught  with  fancies  dim, 

And  he  thought  of  Quill,  his  "e.  c.,"  and  con 
trived  a  pit  for  him. 
IS 


•8IULS 
PAID. 


Running  the  Weekly 


Then  he  stopped  right  in  a  leader  on  the  Euro 
pean  war, 

While  he  wrote  a  puff  for  Barleycorn's  new, 
family  grocery  store ; 

And  just  as  he  got  started  on  the  "Outlook  of 
Today," 

The  foreman  came  to  say  the  "comps."  had 
struck  for  higher  pay. 


Then  he  started  on  a  funny  sketch,  a  fancy  bright 

and  glad, 
When  Slabs,  the  undertaker,  came  to  order  out 

his  "ad."; 
He  smiled  and  wrote  the  title,  "The  Reflections 

of  a  Sage," 
When  the  panting  "devil"  broke  in  with  — 

"They've  pied  the  second  page!  " 


""^       \ 

JT 


Jl* » 

xj 


J     .,' 

V 


He  sighed,  and  took  his  scissors  when  the  ever 

funny  bore 

Said,  "Ah,  writing  editoria  —  "  then  he  weltered 
i(         in  his    ore. 


^PBfipw^ 

"~'-~—  ,/  XOL-*     -£>ez-. 

^^  XN 


Running  the  Weekly 


And  as  the  scribe  was  feeling  happy,  writing  up  /^ 

the  fray, 
His  landlord  came  to  know  if  he  "could  pay  his 

rent  today." 


In  deep  abstraction  then  he  plunged   the  paste 

brush  in  the  ink, 
And  stammered,  "Thank  you,  since  you  will — 

insist  on  it,  I  think — " 
When  from  the  business  office  came  the  cashier, 

"Here's  a  mess ! 
Composish  &  Roller's  put  a  big  attachment  on 

the  press." 

Then  broke  the  editorial  heart;    he  sobbed,  and 

and  said  "Good-bye!  " 
And  forth  he  went,  to  some  far  land,  from  all 

his  woes  to  fly. 
But  ere  the  second  mile  was  flown  he  sank  in 

wild  despair — 
The  Wabash   line  took  up   his  pass  and  made 

him  pay  his  fare. 

2O 


Pulmonic  Passion 


)RESS  me  closer,  all  mine  own — 

Warms  my  heart  for  thee  alone; 
Each  caress  my  longing  fills, 
Every  sense  responsive  thrills ; 
'Neath  thy  touch  I  live,  thy-  slave, 
Rest  the  only  boon  I  crave ; 
Thou  dost  reign  upon  my  breast, 
With  thine  own  fierce  ardor  blest ; 
Closer  still,  for  thou  art  mine; 
Burns  my  heart,  for  I  am  thine ! 
21 


Pulmonic    Passion 

Thou  the  message,  I  the  wire, 
Thou  the  furnace,  I  the  fire ! 
I  the  servant,  thou  the  master — 
Roaring, 

Red  Hot, 

Mustard 

Plaster ! 


******* 


c 


22 


The  "Master  Sleeps 


THE  breath  of  June  with  faint  perfume 
Comes  stealing  through  the  open  door, 
And  restless  shadows  in  the  room 

Play  with  the  sunbeams  on  the  floor. 
The  buzzing  voices  croon  and  drone 

Or  laugh  aloud  in  willful  way — 
The  old  schoolmaster  on  his  throne 

Sleeps  soundly  on  this  sweet  June  day. 
23 


The  Master  Sleeps 


Away  from  noisy  schools  his  dreams 

Have  borne  him  back  through  paths  of  light, 
By  dimpling  mead  and  rippling  streams 

To  childhood's  home  and  morning  bright. 
Softly  he  sleeps,  schoolmaster  wise, 

With  one  mild  eye  just  on  the  crack, 
So  young  Rob  Mclntyre  he  spies 

And  gars  the  dust  fly  from  his  back. 


Soldier,  Rest! 


A     RUSSIAN  sailed  over  the  blue  Black  Sea, 
/*     Just  when  the  war  was  growing  hot, 
And  he  shouted,  "I'm  Tjalikavakeree- 
Karindabrolikanavandorot- 
Schipkadirova- 
Ivandiszstova- 
Sanilik- 

Danilik-  h"' /-'7/ 

Varagobhot ! ' ' 
25 


Soldier,  Rest ! 


A  Turk  was  standing  upon  the  shore 

Right  where  the  terrible  Russian  crossed ; 
And  he  cried,  "Bismillah!"    I'm  Abd  el  Kor- 
Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk- 
Getzinpravadi- 
Kilgekosladji- 
Grivido- 
Blivido- 
Jenikodosk!" 

So  they  stood  like  brave  men,  long  and  well, 

And  they  called  each  other  their  proper  names, 
Till  the  lock-jaw  seized  them,  and  where  they  fell 
They  buried  them  both  by  the  Irdosholames- 
Kalatalustchuk- 
M  ischaribustchup- 
Bulgari- 
Dulgari- 


.  Realization 

'  1VTEATH  summer's  sun  and  winter's  blast 
•!•  ^    While  the  long  years  swept  slowly  past, 
I  waited,  looking  out  to  sea, 
For  sure  my  ship  would  come  to  me. 


At  last!   For  with  this  morning  sun 
My  glad  heart  heard  her  signal  gun  ! 
And  safe  into  the  sheltering  bay 
I  saw  my  ship  come  in  to-day. 

27 


Realization 


And  then  I  learned  that  she  had  been 
Eleven  weeks  in  quarantine, 
While  yellow  fever  sank  the  crew 
Deep  in  its  complementary  blue. 

And  long  before,  while  tempest  tossed, 
Her  masts  and  rigging  had  been  lost, 
And  then  the  crew,  a  frightened  horde, 
Had  flung  the  cargo  overboard. 


And  then  a  steamer  of  the  line 
Laid  hold  upon  this  ship  of  mine 

And  towed  her  through  the  waters  wild,     €£?* 

£? 

And  fearful  claims  for  salvage  filed. 


Then  next  I  learned  the  companee 
Which  had  insured  my  ship  for  me 
Had  gone  up,  higher  than  a  kite — 
Over  the  stars — clear  out  of  sight ! 


28 


Realization 

So  once  again  I  sit  all  day 
Down  where  the  restless  breakers  play, 
And  wish — though  all  the  good  it  does — 
My  ship  had  stayed  out  where  it  was. 

And  when  the  evening,  gray  and  dim, 
Falls  on  the  ocean's  misty  brim, 
With  throbbing  heart  and  quivering  lip, 
I  wish  I'd  never  had  no  ship. 


My  First  Cigar 


5rT"^WAS  just  behind  the  woodshed, 

-*•        One  glorious  summer  day, 
Far  o'er  the  hills  the  sinking  sun 

Pursued  his  westward  way; 
And  in  my  safe  seclusion 

Removed  from  all  the  jar 
And  din  of  earth's  confusion 

I  smoked  my  first  cigar. 
30 


My  First  Cigar 


It  was  my  first  cigar ! 
It  was  the  worst  cigar ! 
Raw,  green  and  dank,  hide-bound  and  rank 
It  was  my  first  cigar! 


Ah,  bright  the  boyish  fancies 

Wrapped  in  the  smoke-wreaths  blue; 
My  eyes  grew  dim,  my  head  was  light, 

The  woodshed  round  me  flew ! 
Dark  night  closed  in  around  me — 

Black  night,  without  a  star — 
Grirh  death  methought  had  found  me 

And  spoiled  my  first  cigar. 

It  was  my  first  cigar ! 
A  six-for-five  cigar ! 
No  viler  torch  the  air  could  scorch — 
It  was  my  first  cigar  ! 

All  pallid  was  my  beaded  brow, 

The  reeling  night  was  late, 
My  startled  mother  cried  in  fear, 

"My  child,  what  have  you  ate?" 


My  First  Cigar 


I  heard  my  father's  smothered  laugh, 

It  seemed  so  strange  and  far, 
I  knew  he  knew  I  knew  he  knew 

I'd  smoked  my  first  cigar! 

It  was  my  first  cigar ! 
A  give-away  cigar ! 
I  could  not  die — I  knew  not  why — 
It  was  my  first  cigar ! 

Since  then  I've  stood  in  reckless  ways, 

I've  dared  what  men  can  dare, 
I've  mocked  at  danger,  walked  with  death, 

I've  laughed  at  pain  and  care. 
I  do  not  dread  what  may  befall 

'Neath  my  malignant  star, 
No  frowning  fate  again  can  make 

Me  smoke  my  first  cigar. 


I've  smoked  my  first  cigar! 
My  first  and  worst  cigar ! 
Fate  has  no  terrors  for  the  man 
Who's  smoked  his  first  cigar 
32 


The  Inside  Track 


HE  came  to  the  bower  of  her  I  love 
Twanging  his  light  guitar; 
He  called  her  in  song  his  snow  white  dove, 

His  lily,  his  fair,  bright  star, 
While  I  sat  by  the  side  of  the  brown-eyed  maid 
And  helped  her  enjoy  her  serenade. 
33 


The   Inside  Track 

He  sang  that  his  love  was  beyond  compare — 
(His  voice  was  sweet  as  his  song)  ; 

He  said  she  was  pure,  and  gentle,  and  fair, 
And  I  told  her  he  wasn't  far  wrong. 

I  don't  know  whether  he  heard  me  or  not, 

For  his  E  string  snapped  like  a  pistol  shot. 

He  told  how  he  loved  her,  o'er  and  o'er, 

With  passion  in  every  word, 
In  songs  that  I  never  knew  before — 

And  sweeter  ones  ne'er  were  heard. 
But  the  night  dews  loosened  his  tenor  strings 
And  they  buzzed  out  of  tune  like  crazy  things. 

He  sang  and  he  played  till  the  moon  was  high, 
(Oh,  sweet  was  the  love-born  strain!) 

While  the  night  caught  up  ench  tremulous  sigh 
And  echoed  the  sweet  refrain. 

But  I  laughed  when  a  beetle  flew  down  his  throat 

And  choked  in  a  sneeze  his  highest  note. 


34 


The   Inside  Track 


She  liked  it;    and  I  did — just  so-so; 

I  was  glad  to  hear  his  lay ; 
I  sometimes  echoed  him,  soft  and  low, 

When  he  sang  what  I  wanted  to  say ; 
Till  at  last  I  leaned  from  the  window  and  then 
I  thanked  him,  and  asked  him  to  call  again. 
And  then  he  went  away. 


Baby  Mine 


THERE  is  no  joy  in  the  world  like  you, 
No  music  sweet  as  your  "goo-ah-goo," 
No  skies  so  soft  as  your  eyes  of  blue — 

Baby,  oh  my  baby! 

But  when  you  ground  on  the  hidden  pin, 
And  open  your  valve  and  howl  like  sin, 
No  gong  can  equal  your  little  din, 
Baby,  oh  my  baby! 
36 


J 


w 


Baby  Mine 

My  heart  is  glad  when  your  face  I  see, 
My  joy  is  full  when  you  come  to  me, 
I  laugh  with  you  in  romping  glee, 

Baby,  oh  my  baby  ! 
But  oftentimes  my  midnight  snore 
Is  broken  short  by  your  startling  roar, 
And  till  morning  dawns  we  walk  the  floor- 
Baby,  oh  my  baby ! 


37 


Songs  Without  Words 


T  CAN  not  sing  the  old  songs, 
*•      Though  well  I  know  the  tune, 
Familiar  as  a  cradle  song 

With  sleep-compelling  croon ; 
Yet  though  I'm  filled  with  music 

As  choirs  of  summer  birds, 
"  I  can  not  sing  the  old  songs" — 

I  do  not  know  the  words. 

38         -:'^ 


Songs  Without  Words 

I  start  on  "Hail  Columbia," 

And  get  to  "heav'n-born  band," 
And  there  I  strike  an  up-grade 

With  neither  steam  nor  sand ; 
"  Star  Spangled  Banner"  downs  me 

Right  in  my  wildest  screaming, 
I  start  all  right,  but  dumbly  come 

To  voiceless  wreck  at  "streaming." 

So,  when  I  sing  the  old  songs, 

Don't  murmur  or  complain 
If  "Ti,  diddy  ah  da,  turn  dum," 

Should  fill  the  sweetest  strain. 
I  love  "Tolly  um  dum  di  do," 

And  the  "trilla-la  yeep  da"-birds, 
But  "I  can  not  sing  the  old  songs" — 

I  do  not  know  the  words. 


39 


,/.,•;  .«.    ;v.  :    JAkJh 

>*&<      \  vr 


M 


Margins 


Y  dreams  so  fair  that  used  to  be, 

The  promises  of  youth's  bright  clime, 


So  changed,  alas;   come  back  to  me 

Sweet  memories  of  that  hopeful  time 
Before  I  learned,  with  doubt  oppressed, 
There  are  no  birds  in  next  year's  nest. 
40 


Margins 

The  seed  I  sowed  in  fragrant  spring 

The  summer's  sun  to  vivify 
With  his  warm  kisses,  ripening 

To  golden  harvest  by  and  by, 
Got  caught  by  drought,  like  all  the  rest — 
There  are  no  birds  in  next  year's  nest. 


The  stock  I  bought  at  eighty-nine, 

Broke  down  next  day  to  twenty-eight  ; 

Some  squatters  jumped  my  silver  mine, 
My  own  convention  smashed  my  slate ; 

No  more  in  "futures"  I'll  invest — 

* 

There  are  no  birds  in  next  year's  nest. 


V-v,  .*\V\---     ~S 


The  School  Ma'am 


SEE  where  she  comes  adovvn  the  lane 
With  gladness  in  her  laughing  eye, 
But  in  her  hand  the  rattan  cane 
To  stifle  laughter  by  and  by. 


Young  love  lurks  in  her  merry  tone, 
And  nestles  in  her  roguish  looks, 

But  long,  hard,  crooked  questions  moan 
And  sob  and  gibber  in  her  books. 

42 


The  School  Ma'am 

Her  dimpled  hand,  that  seeks  the  curl 
Coquetting  with  her  graceful  head, 

Can  make  a  boy's  ears  ring  and  whirl 
And  make  him  wish  that  he  were  dead. 


How  much  she  kens,  this  learned  rose, 
Of  human  will  and  human  won't; 

One  wonder  is,  how  much  she  knows, 
The  other  is,  how  much  I  don't. 


Sweet  pedagogue,  much  could  I  tell 
The  merry  boys  who  greet:  thy  call — 

Thy  mother  cuffed  my  ears;  right  well, 
When  she  was  young  and  I  was  small. 


Putting  His  Armor  On 


f^TF  you're  waking  call  me  early,  call  me 
*•  early,  mother  dear," 

For  I've  a  heap  to  resolute  about,  this  glad 
New  Year ; 

There's  lots  of  things  I'm  going  to  say  I'm  go 
ing  to  try  to  do, 

And  I  hope  perhaps  in  a  thousand  things  I'll 
manage  to  keep  a  few. 

44 


Putting  His  Armor  On 


I  will  not  look  upon  the  wine  when  it  is  rosy 

red — 
So  may  my  evening  hat  sit  loosely  on  my  morn- 

ing  head,  #j^ 

I  will  not  whistle  in  the  cars  the  airs  I  do  not  'f 
•^\       know,  ~^^, 

Nor  hold  high  revel  in  my  rooms  while  others 
Y^-  sleep  below. 

.  'l  n  v  "}w& 

I  will  not  stand  with  sinners  at  the  corner  of  theX_/  -      >  \ 

t/j  H 

>  street;  ' '// AS 

•^_  I  will  not    talk    about  myself,   to   every  one  I 

meet;  I  V 

I'll  be  the  good  boy  of  the  school,  and  study      I'^^fl1 

hard  all  day,  0 

•  Nor  prod  my  seat-mate  with  a  pin,  to  see  him 

I-    ') 
laugh  and  play.  f|  | v , 


When  Wisdom  crieth  in  the  streets,  I'll  know 
that  she  means  me, 

And  when  she  putteth  forth  her  voice,  I'll  an 
swer,  "Here  I  be!" 
45 


Putting  His  Armor  On 

When  bigger  men  affront  me,    I   will  give  the 

answer  soft, 
But  the  little  man  who  tries  it  on,  may  venture 

once  too  oft. 

I  will  not  lie  about  my  age,  my  salary  or  weight ; 
To  help  in  deed  the  friend  in  need,  I  will  not 

hesitate ; 
I  will  not  grind — for  nothing — the  faces  of  the 

poor, 
And  fractured  toys  and  broken  hearts  I'll  try  to 

mend  and  cure. 

I  will  not  wear  a  dress  coat  when  the  sun  is  in 

the  sky ; 
I  will  not  wear  a  collar  more  than  seven  inches 

high ; 
I'll  be  so  good  and  sensible  that  people  in  the 

street 
Will  lift  their  hats  to  me  and  make  obeisance 

when  we  meet. 


Putting  His  Armor  On 

Good-night,  dear  mother,  sweet  good-night; 
nay,  do  not  weep  for  me; 

Though  I'm  so  good  to-night,  you  fear  the 
morn  I  ne'er  may  see; 

But  if  I  do  live  through  it,  when  to-morrow  dis 
appears — 

You'll  likely  think  your  precious  boy  will  live  a 
hundred  years. 


OLOW    paced,  with    listless    step  he    moved 
^        along 

To  where  the  woodbine  mantled  all  the  door, 

And  strewed  its  restless  shadows  on  the  floor ; 
His  sinewy  breath,  escaping  in  a  song, 
Bore  scent  of  Old  Tom  Juniper,  full  strong; 

Upon  both  feet  he  limped,  as  travel  sore. 

For  alms  he  asked;   ate  them,  and  asked  for 
more; 

And  lingered  yet,  the  banquet  to  prolong, 
Whiles  I  felt  envy  of  his  bone  and  brawn 
48 


The  Tramp 

And  his  glad  life,  so  free  from  toil  or  care  ; 
And  did  not  know,  till  after  he  was  gone 

That  he  had  taken  with  him,  my  best  pair 
Of  Summer  clothes,  and  other  things,  to  pawn, 

And  drifted  idly  off — we  knew  not  where. 


Ah,  would  that  I,  like  him,  might  come  and  go, 

As  birds,   and  winds,   and    shadows   go  and 
come, 

Careless  of  all  things  sad  or  burdensome; 
Living  as  lightly  as  fair  lilies  grow 
Beside  the  dreamy  river's  slumbrous  flow; 

At  morn,  awakened  by  the  hollow  drum 

Of  partridge  in  the  thicket;    by  the  hum 
Of  ever  busy  bees  at  noon  tide's  glow 
Lulled  to  my  mid-day  slumber  in  the  wood ; 

Drone  like,  to  eat  the  sweets  by  others  stored, 
To  live  with  birds  and  winds  in  brotherhood ; 

My  fashion  plate — the  clothes-line ;   and  my 

board — 
The  farmer's  care — but  there!    I  am  no  good; 

I  have  no  art ;  I  would  get  caught  and  scored  ! 
49 


City  Lyrics 


"What's  in  all  this  grand  life  an'  high  situation, 
And  nary  pink  nor  hollyhawk  bloomin'  at  the  door  ?  " 

RlLE-V 


The  Hod-Fellow 


OH,  bird  of  the  avenue,  strong  is  thy  wing 
As  thou  piercest  the  clouds  with  thy  loud 
caroling ; 

I  follow  thy  flight  with  my  hand-shaded  eye — 
"Oh,    where   art   thou    going,   so   high   and  so 
high?" 

53 


The  Hod-Fellow 

Thy  plumage  is  blue  as  the  skies  in  the  fall, 
And  tawny  the  top-knot  that  shines  over-all ; 
Straight  into  the  eye  of  the  clear  gleaming  day, 
Right  upward  and  onward  thou  soarest  away. 

Say,  where  dost  thou  fly  with  thy  head  burden- 
bowed  ? 

Oh,  say,  dost  thou  build  thy  lone  nest  in  the 
cloud? 

With  an  arm  full  of  bricks  in  thy  three-sided  hat, 

Thou  wingest  thy  way  to  a  ninth-story  flat. 

The  flights  thou  hast  made,  were  they  straightly 
aligned, 

Would  pierce  the  blue  ether  and  stick  out  be 
hind ; 

Why  not  keep  right  on  when  the  ladder  you've 
trod, 

And  pull  it  up  after  you,  man  with  the  hod? 


54 


The  Hod-Fellow 

The  sun-staring  eagle  has  broad-sweeping  wings 
To  fan  the  light  zephyr  as  upward  he  swings; 
But  he'd  lower  his  crest  in  the  gloom  of  defeat 
Should  he  ever,  like  you,  try  to  fly  with  his  feet. 

Oh,  bird  of  the  ladder-flight !  Lightly  my  muse 
Will  sing  the  slow  lift  of  thy  high-soaring  shoes ; 
Thou  teachest  ambition,  the  sure  way  to  climb — 
Is  to  plod  up  the  ladder  one  round  at  a  time. 


Morning 


WHAT    charms    are   thine,   oh   incense- 
breathing  morn ! 

How  blessed  with  dewy  freshness  is  the  hour  ! 
Before  the  dawn  I  hear  the  milkman's  horn 
Wind  at  my  gate  with  ever-swelling  power. 


The  rosy-fingered  hours  far  in  the  east 

Kindle  the  skies  with  flames  of  gold  and  red, 

Food  for  the  eyes — though  for  my  morning  feast 
I  much  prefer  a  little  roll  in  bed. 
56 


-\\ 


Morning 


r_J    The  English  sparrows  wrangling  at  my  gate 

Salute  the  day  with  many  a  rasping  squack ; 
The  cartman,  with  slow  wheels  that  creak  and 

grate, 

Inspires    his    laggard    steed   with   shout  and 
whack. 

And  now  the  baker's  bell  with  dire  alarm 

Ding-dongs  and  clangs ;    in  tones  that  fairly 

freeze 

The  list'ner's  blood;   a  huckster  from  the  farm 
Yells   'neath  the  window — "Nice  fresh  rad- 
ishees ! ' ' 


With  shrieks  and  cries  of  varying  vehemence 
Rush  down  the  street  loud  swarms  of  whist 
ling  boys, 
While  every  man  in  all  the  city  dense 

Starts  up  to  greet  the  day  with  some  new  y 
noise. 


57 


Morning 

"Old  bot-tuls  !"  "Rags!"  come  bawling  up  the 

street ; 
"Quid   hats!    ould   hats!    ould   hats!"    just 

shakes  the  door ; 

"Charco'  "  and   "Tatoes"  in  the  tumult  bleat, 
While  "Morning  pa-piz  ! ' '  swells  the  thunder 
ing  roar. 


Oh,  peaceful  morn  ;  oh,  hallowed,  blessed  dawn  ! 

How  sweet  to  kiss  thy  dewy,  scented  breath ! 
How  sweet  to  grasp  a  club  and  fall  upon 

Yon  shrilling  boy,  and  maul  him  half  to  death  ! 


School  "Takes  Up" 


THE  boys  have  come  back  to  school 
And  me ; 
And  a  conflict  of  riot  and  rule 

I  see; 

The  whispered  joke,  and  the  stealthy  grin, 
The  clinging  wax,  and  the  crooked  pin, 
The  smothered  laugh,  and  the  buzzing  din 
Ah  me! 
59 


School  "Takes  Up" 

My  profile  chalked  on  the  outer  walls — 

Dear  me ! 
And  the  ceiling  stuccoed  with  paper  balls 

I  see; 

The  shuffling  feet  on  the  gritty  floor, 
The  inky  face  at  the  school-room  door, 
The  vicious  pinch,  and  the  muffled  roar — 

Ah  me !        [ 


The  question  brisk  and  the  answer  slow — 

Ah  me ; 
The  "I  furgit"  and  the  "I  dun  no," 

Ah  me ;, 

"  'N'  four  times  seven  is  twenty-nine;" 
"  'N'  Rome  is  a  town  on  the  river  Rhine;" 
"  'N'  George  is  a  verb,  V  agrees  with  wine;" 
)ear  me ! 


60 


School  "Takes  Up" 

Grimace  and  giggle,  grin  and  wink — 

Dear  me ! 
Buzz,  hum  and  whisper — who  can  think? 

Oh,  me! 

Wouldn't  it  be  a  better  rule 
To  let  the  boy  grow  up  a  fool, 
Rather  than  send  him  back  to  school 

And  me? 


61 


wrwi  \  jLfg?- 

/-S^^v        ' 

The  Countermarch 


^  ,* 


TRAMP,  tramp,  tramp! 
With  the  morning  clocks  at  ten, 
She  skimmed  the  street  with  footsteps  fleet, 
And  jostled  the  timid  men. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp! 
She  entered  the  dry  goods  store, 
And  with  hurrying  tread  the  dance  she  led 
All  over  the  crowded  floor. 
62 


The  Countermarch 


She  charged  the  throng  where  the  bargains  were, 
And  everybody  made  way  for  her ; 
Wherever  she  saw  a  "special"  sign 
She  made  for  the  spot  a  prompt  bee  line ; 
Whatever  was  old,  or  whatever  was  new, 
She  had  it  down  and  she  looked  it  through. 
Whatever  it  was  that  caught  her  eye, 
She'd  handle,  and  price,  and  pretend  to  buy. 
But  'twas  either  too  bad,  too  common,  too  good, 
So  she  did,  and  she  wouldn't,  and  didn't  and 
-^_      would. 

And  round  the  counters  and  up  the  stairs, 
In  attic  and  basement  and  every wheres, 
The  salesmen  fainted  and  cash  boys  dropped, 
But  still  she  shopped,  and  shopped,  and  shopped, 
And  shopped,  and  shopped,  and  shopped,  and 

shopped ; 

And  round,  and  round,  and  round,  and  round, 
Like  a  serpentine  toy  with  a  key  that's  wound, 
She  weaved  and  wriggled  and  twisted  about, 
Like  a  gyrating  whirlwind  dazed  with  doubt, 
This  way  in  and  the  other  way  out, 

63 


The  Countermarch 

Till  men  grew  giddy  to  see  her  go ! 
And  by  and  by,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
Homeward  she  dragged  her  weary  way 
With  a  boy  to  carry  the  spoil  of  the  day — 
A  spool  of  silk  and  a  hank  of  thread — 
Eight  hours — ten  cents — and  a  woman  half  dead. 


64 


The  Mendicant 


1HEAR    thy  full-voiced    note — thy   flight   of 
song — 

It  broods  beneath  my  casement  in  the  night, 
And  cooing,  wakes  me  in  the  early  light, 
Whiles  I  would  slumber  on,  and  on,  and  on, 
And  wonder  if  tliou  never  wilt  be  gone. 
I  hear  thy  warble  down  the  echoing  street 
Where  other  songs  awake  thine  own  to  greet 
And  with  it  blend. 
65 


The  Mendicant 

Down   the    long    pavement's    human-cumbered 

waste, 
I  hear  thy  plaintive  chant;  thou  hast,  thou 

sayst, 

"Wash  tubs  to  mend!" 

Oh,  child  of  song!    my  heart  goes  out  to  thee  ! 
Although  I  would  not,  I  must  hear  thee  sing 
Alike  in  winter  sere  and  budding  spring; 
Far  from  thy  madding  wail  though  I  should  flee, 
Yet,  biding  my  return,  thou  still  wouldst  be 
Singing   the    same    old    tune,    the   same   old 

words — 
"Like  the  repeating  minstrelsy  of  birds;" 

Pray  thee,  suspend  'em! 
In  vain  regrets  thy  voice  no  longer  spend, 
If  it  be  true  you  have  wash  tubs  to  rnend, 
Why  don't  you  mend  'em? 


66 


"Festina  Lente" 

OLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man. 
*— '      Hasten  slowly  as  you  can ; 
Loiter  nimbly  on  your  tramp 
With  the  ten-cent  speedy  stamp. 
Thou  art  "boss"  ;   the  business  man 
Postals  writes  for  thee  to  scan ; 
And  the  man  who  writes,  "With  speed," 
Gets  it — in  his  mind — indeed. 
67 


"  Festina   Lente" 


Lo,  the  man  who  penned  the  note 
Wasted  ten  cents  when  he  wrote ; 
And  the  maid  for  it  will  wait 
At  the  window,  by  the  gate, 
In  the  doorway,  down  the  street, 
List'ning  for  thy  footsteps  fleet. 
But  her  cheek  will  flush  and  pale, 
Till  it  comes  next  day  by  mail, 
With  thine  own  indorsement  neat — 
"No  such  number  on  the  street." 
Oh,  if  words  could  but  destroy, 
Thou  wouldst  perish,  truthful  boy! 

r\ 

Oh,  for  boyhood's  easy  way- 
Messenger  who  sleeps  all  day, 
Or,  from  rise  to  set  of  sun, 
Reads  "The  Terror"  on  the  run. 
For  your  sport,  the  band  goes  by; 
For  your  perch,  the  lamp  post  high 
For  your  pleasure,  on  the  street 
Dogs  are  fighting,  drums  are  beat; 
n 


w 


11  Festina  Lente 


For  your  sake,  the  boyish  fray, 
Organ  grinder,  run-away; 
Trucks  for  your  convenience  are; 
For  your  ease,  the  bob-tail  car; 
Every  time  and  even-  where 
You're  not  wanted,  you  are  there. 
Dawdling,  whistling,  loit'ring  scamp, 
Seest  thou  this  ten-cent  stamp? 
Stay  thou  not  for  book  or  toy — 
Vamos!      Fly!      Skedaddle,  boy! 


Two  Rag  Men 


RIFTS  away  the  murky  night 

Dawns  the  morning's  smoky  light; 
In  the  highway's  busy  hum 
Ere  I  see,  I  hear  him  come; 
Gutter,  barrel,  box  he  drags, 
While  his  matins  rise — "Old  rags!" 
70 


Brother  mine,  thy  wailing  cry 
Here  I  echo  with  a  sigh ; 
All  thy  brother  has  to  wear 
When  he  fain  would  take  the  air, 
Button  gone,  and  pin  that  jags, 
Ever  mocks  his  poor  "old  rags." 

E'en  the  page  whereon  I  write, 
Marring  all  its  surface  white, 
Pure  and  fair  as  drifting  snow 
When  December  tempests  blow — 
Whispers  to  the  pen  that  drags — 
"I  am  nothing  but  old  rags." 


And  the  wealth  I  hope  to  get 
For  this  intellectual  sweat, 
All  the  crisp  and  verdant  bills, 
Pulped  and  spread  in  paper  mills, 
All  the  poet's  hard-earned  swag, 
Once  was  gathered  in  thy  bag. 


Two  Rag  Men 


Rags,  the  bed  on  which  I  lie; 
Rags,  the  shirt  I  have  (to  buy)  ; 
Rags,  old  rags,  my  note  of  hand 
(So  I'm  given  to  understand)  ; 
Curses  on  thee,  hook  and  bags, 
Rival  gatherer  of  rags  ! 


•(Kills  him  with  a  stone  ink  bottle  and  steals 
j  his  bag  of  rags,  which  brings  at  the  junk  shop 
I  more  than  a  seven  octave  poem . ) 


Trolley  La  La 


r  I  ^HE  car  he  waited  for  came  down, 

1      And  then  went  thund'ring  by, 
With  winged  feet  along  the  street 
He  sped  with  fearsome  cry ; 
The  happy  boys  with  joyous  noise 

Exclaimed  "Hi,  hi!    Hooray!" 
But  swift  and  far  that  trolley  car 
He  chased,  that  summer  day. 
73 


•S? 


Trolley  La  La ! 

And  other  cars  they  came  and  went — 

Their  gongs  he  heeded  not; 
His  breath  was  gone,  his  strength  was  spent. 

His  frame  and  ire  were  hot; 
With  panting  roar  he  passed  his  door, 

And  crooked,  west  and  far, 
Into  the  vague  Hereaftermore — 

He  chased  that  trolley  car. 


74 


i'l 

Aquarius 


QPRINKLE,  sprinkle,  water-cart, 
^      Oft  I  wonder  where  thou  art; 
Never  can  I  find  thee  nigh 
When  the  dust  is  deep  and  dry. 


When  the  sun  puts  on  his  cloud 
And  the  Vain-pour  patters  loud, 
Then  you  wing  your  little  flight- 
Sprinkle,  sprinkle  left  and  right. 
75 


Aquarius 

* 

When  the  crossings,  Sunday  clean, 
Full  of  well-dressed  folk  are  seen, 
Vainly  then  they  dodge  and  scream, 
Sprinkled  with  thy  pluvial  stream  ! 


And  when  bright  my  shoes  are  "shined,"' 
And  my  hands  in  gloves  confined, 
Rattling  down  the  thirsty  street, 
How  you  soak  my  hands  and  feet. 

Some  day,  when  this  deed  is  done, 
I  will  draw  my  trusty  gun ; 
Then  thou'lt  wonder  where  thou  art, 
Buckshot-sprinkled  water-cart ! 


i 


Getting  Even 


IF  I  were  a  railway  brakeman, 
I'd  call  out  the  stations  so  plain 
That  the  passenger  booked  for  Texas 
Would  go  clear  through  to  Maine, 
I'd  open  the  door  of  the  smoker 
And  give  such  a  mighty  roar 
That  the  people  back  in  the  sleeper 
Would  fall  out  on  the  floor. 
77 


For  I  couldn't  afford  a  tenor  voice 

That  would  murmur,  and  sigh,  and  speak 

In  the  soft,  low  tones  of  ALolian  harps 
For  eleven  dollars  a  week. 

If  I  were  a  baggage-master 

I'd  rattle  the  trunks  about; 
I'd  stand  them  up  in  the  corner, 
And  shake  their  cargoes  out; 
I  would  pull  the  handles  out  by  the  roots, 

I  would  kick  the  bottoms  in, 
And  strew  their  stuffing  around  the  car, 
And  make  them  lank  and  thin. 

For  I  couldn't  afford  to  wear  kid  gloves, 

And  put  pads  on  my  feet, 
And  fondle  things  gently,  when  all  my  pay 
Just  kept  me  in  bread  and  meat. 


If  I  were  a  railway  conductor, 
As  through  the  train  I'd  go, 

I'd  have  for  every  question  asked — 
This  ready  reply,  "Don't  know." 

78 


Getting  Even 

I'd  miss  connections  for  lots  of  men, 

I'd  run  lone  passengers  past; 
I'd  tell  them  'twas  eight,  when  I  knew  'twas  ten, 
And  declare  their  watches  fast. 
For  I  couldn't  afford  to  be  civil 

When  I  knew  every  man  in  the  load 
Would  look  at  my  watch  and  ring,  and  say : 
"He  stole  them  things  from  the  road." 


79 


A  Spell  of  Rhyme 


'  a>< 


WARD  engine  "Louisa,"  B.  C-R.  &  N.,  J^ 

•1    Was  shifting  some  empties  about  three  p.  m. ,  "  ^ 
When  the  stoker  leaned  out  of  his  window  to  say, 

"There's  a  cow  going  down  the  tea  arr  ay  see  < " , 
kay." 


Pensively  halted  the  cow  on  the  track, 
Burs  in  her  matted  tail,  bran  on  her  back; 
Dreaming  of  summer,"  she  seemed  not  to  see 
The  on-coming  yard  ee  en  gee  eye  en  ee. 

80 


A  Spell  of  Rhyme 


Once  more  spake  the  stoker,    "Right  close  is 

she  now ; " 

"Bully,"  the  engineer  quoth,  "for  the  cow!" 
Then  reversing  his  engine  he  cried,  "Shoo,  oh 

shoo ! ' ' 
Said  the  stoker,  "Oh,  shoot  the  see  oh  double 

you  ! ' ' 

Shrilly  the  whistle  shrieked  forth  its  alarm, 
And  the   stoker  threw  firewood   and  coal   in  a 

swarm ; 
But  the  cow  never  heeded,  nor  thought  that  her 

star 
Was  setting  at  four  miles  an  aitch  oh  you  arr. 


The  yard  engine  struck  her  about  amidships, 
\  And  her  summer  dreams  went  into  total  eclipse ; 
It  scattered  her  system,  most  shocking  to  see 
All  over  the  ess  tea  arr  double  ee  tea ! 


81 


...  •         -2ti  . 

^?^-.^.,,-:u- 

0  ^-V.^v^- 

* 


A  Spell  of  Rhyme 

Sadly  the  engineer  drew  in  his  head, 
And  "pulled  her  wide  open"  as  onward  he  sped  ; 
But  the  stoker-laughed  gaily,  "Old  fellow,  I  say, 
There's"  a  mighty  cheap  cut  of  ess  tea  ee  aie 
kay ! ' ' 


82 


The  Brakeman's  Sweetheart 

|\  /I  Y  love  is  like  a  parlor  car, 

*' "  *     Perfection  all  her  graces  are ; 

Smoothly,  without  a  frown  or  jar, 

She  runs  by  smiles ; 
Would  she  but  couple  on  to  me, 
How  happy  then  our  lives  would  be, 
And  east  or  west — ah,  wouldn't  we 

Make  sunny  miles ! 
83 


The   Brakeman's   Sweetheart 

Her  eyes  electric  lamps  eclipse ; 

To  think  of  running  daily  trips 

With  orders  from  her  rose-bud  lips — 

It  makes  my  head-light ! 
But  sand  and  steam  I  seem  to  lack  ; 
When  I'd  suggest  a  double-track, 
Her  laughing  eyes  they  set  me  back 

Quick  as  a  red  light. 


I  know  she  dearly  loves  to  tease, 
For  once,  when  on  my  bended  knees, 
I  told  her,  with  what  warmth  you  please. 

How  I  adored  her, — 
With  gauzy,  perfumed  fan  outspread 
She  lightly  tapped  her  lover's  head, 
And  bending  over,  softly  said, 

"Shops,  Joe;    bad  order!" 


84 


Evening 


HPHE  sun  sinks  down  the  distant  west- 

Where'er  the  west  ma}'  be, 
Until  the  city  building's  crest 

Shuts  off  its  light  fro'm  me. 
It  can  not  hide  behind  a  hill 

And  so  it  hides  behind  a  mill. 


Evening 

The  whistles  blow  their  evening  tune — 
How  shrill  their  echoes  from  afar ! 

How  sweet  to  sniff  the  dust  of  June 
And  rush  to  catch  the  twilight  car ! 

While  in  its  smoke,  and  dust,  and  heat, 

A  fat  man  stands  on  both  my  feet. 


Here  in  the  suburb,  dusty,  gray, 
Roar  the  loud  mouthings  of  a  row ; 

I  feel  no  fear;    it  is  the  way 

My  neighbor  urges  home  his  cow ; 

With  clubs  and  yells  she  must  be  led 

From  gardens  wrecked,  where  she  hath  fed. 


Upon  the  soft,  domestic  air, 

Faint,  sensuous  odors  drift  along — 
Coffee,  potatoes,  beefsteak  rare, 

Fried  onions,  eggs,  tripe  and  oolong; 
And,  daintier  tastes  to  lure  and  please, 
Fried  liver,  ham,  and  castile  cheese. 


86 


Evening 

Oh,  blissful  eve!      How  blest  the  town      1 
That  swelters  thus  through  leafy  June; 

How  blest  to  watch  the  ice  melt  down, 
To  serve  the  butter  with  a  spoon ; 

To  list  the  trolley's  gonging  chime 

And  know  that  it  is  evening  time. 


Politics 


Let  none  presume 
To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 
O,  that  estates,  degrees  and  offices 
Were  not  derived  corruptly  ;  and  that  clear  honor 
Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer! 
How  many  then  should  cover,  that  stand  bare! 
How  many  be  commanded,  that  command! 

MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


What  Lack  We  Yet? 

\  X  THEN  Washington  was  president 

*  ^        He  was  a  mortal  icicle ; 
He  never  on  a  railroad  went, 
And  never  rode  a  bicycle. 


He  read  by  no  electric  lamp, 

Ne'er  heard  about  the  Yellowstone; 

He  never  licked  a  postage  stamp, 
And  never  saw  a  telephone. 
91 


What  Lack  We  Yet? 

His  trousers  ended  at  his  knees ; 

By  wire  he  could  not  snatch  dispatch 
He  filled  his  lamp  with  whale-oil  grease, 

And  never  had  a  match  to  scratch. 

But  in  these  days  it's  come  to  pass, 
All  work  is  with  such  dashing  done, 

We've  all  these  things,  but  then,  alas — 
We  seem  to  have  no  Washington  ! 


All  Things  to  All  Men 


I'VE  run  all  the  old  parties  over 
And  now  to  a  new  one  must  go ; 
I  think  there  are  offices  somewhere, 
If  I'd  had  any  kind  of  a  show. 

Then  give  me  some  sort  of  a  show — oh  ho  ! 
I'm  a  rather  "weak  sister"  I  know; 
But  I'd  run  my  legs  off  for  an  office, 
If  I  only  knew  which  way  to  go. 

93 


All  Things  to  All  Men 


From  now  till  the  day  of  election, 
I'll  promise  all  men  everything; 
And  it's  awful  to  think  my  rejection, 

The  votes,  when  they're  counted,  may  bring. 
Then  give  me  some  sort  of  a  show — oh  ho  ! 
Into  any  new  party  I'll  go! 
For  the  starvingest  kind  of  an  office 
I'll  be  anything  that  I  know. 


Please  keep  your  eyes  open  and  watchful 

And  when  any  new  party  you  see 
That  is  wanting  a  man  for  an  office 
Just  kindly  refer  them  to  me. 

For  I'm  always  ready  to  go — you  know! 
Where  an  office  its  shadow  may  throw ; 
I'd  swim  through  the  broad  Mississippi 
For  the  littlest  office  I   know. 


And  if,  when  the  election  is  over, 
Up  Salt  River  I  must  repair, 

My  banishment  wouldn't  seem  lonesome 
If  an  office  could  follow  me  there. 
94 


All  Things  to  All  Men 

So  follow  me  up  when  I  go — oh  ho ! 
And  write  on  my  tombstone,  you  know- 
'If  you're  hunting  a  man  for  an  office, 
Just  wake  up  the  fossil  below!" 


95 


The  Day  We  Do  Not  Celebrate 


O 


NE  famous  day  in  great  July 

John  Adams  said,  long  years  gone  by, 


"This  day  that  makes  a  people  free 
Shall  be  the  people's  jubilee, 

"With  games,  guns,  sports,  and  shows  displayed, 
With  bells,  pomp,  bonfires,  and  parade, 

"Throughout  this  land,  from  shore  to  shore, 
From  this  time  forth,  forevermore." 

The  years  passed  on,  and  by  and  by, 
Men's  hearts  grew  cold  in  hot  July. 
96 


The  Day  We  Do  Not  Celebrate 


And  Mayor  Hawarden   Cholmondely  said 
"Hof  rockets  Hi  ham  sore  hafraid ; 

"Hand  hif  you  send  one  hup  hablaze, 
-Hi'll  send  you  hup  for  sixty  days." 

Then  said  the  Mayor  O'Shay  McQuade, 
"Thayre  uz  no  nade  fur  no  perade." 

And  Mayor  Hans  Von  Schvvartzenmeyer 
Proclaimed,  "I'll  haf  me  no  bonfier!" 

Said  Mayor  Baptiste  Raphael 
"No  make-a  ring-a  dat-a  bell!" 

"By  gar!"  cried  Mayor  Jean  Crapaud, 
"Zis  July  games  vill  has  to  go!" 

And  Mayor  Knud  Christofferrssonn 

Said,  "Djeath  to  hjjim  who  fjjres  a  gjjunn ! 

At  last,  cried  Mayor  Wun  Lung  Lee — 
"Too  muchee  hoop-la  boberee  !  " 

And  so  the  Yankee  holiday, 
Of  proclamations  passed  away. 

97 


In  Medio  Tutissimus  Ibis 


IT     ET  other  men  wrangle  and  strive, 
*  *— '   And  struggle,  and  scheme,  and  contrive, 
For  me  'tis  discreeter,  and  meeter,  and  sweeter 

To  sit  on  the  fence  by  myself ; 
I  know  that  the  scorn  of  the  world 
At  my  meaningless  mean  will  be  hurled, 
But  I  have  no  measure,  or  leisure,  or  pleasure 
To  struggle  for  power  and  pelf. 
98 


In  Medio  Tutissimus  Ibis 

There  are  fellows  whose  greatest  delight 
Is  to  seek  for  the  heart  of  the  fight 
And  jostle  and  shoulder  the  older  and  bolder, 

And  knock  out  the  timid  and  slim  ; 
So  if  I,  of  a  peace-loving  mind, 
To  roost  on  the  fence  am  inclined, 
Small  odds  if  they  hiss  me,  or  kiss  me,  or  miss 

me, 
For  keeping  up  out  of  the  swim. 


If  ever  I  go  to  a  war, 
I  will  go  in  the  medical  corps, 
And  then  while  they're  fighting  and  biting  and 

smiting, 

And  shedding  bad  language  and  gore, 
I'll  turn  from  the  strife  I  abhor, 
Both  sides  of  the  field  I'll  explore, 
Where  the  wounded  are  creeping,  and  weeping, 

and  sleeping, 
Sweet  balm  in  their  hurts  I  will  pourf 


99 


The  Postmaster 


LONG  years  he  dwelt  behind  the  latticed  wall, 
Built  of  glass  boxes  where  he  mislaid  mail; 
With  gentle  patience  answered  every  call, 

And  licked  the  stamps  for  childhood,  sweet 

and  frail. 
Administrations  changed  with  rise  and  fall — 

Serene  he  weathered  every  shifting  gale; 
His  Civil  Service  rules  were  few  and  fit, 
And  framed  to  catch  the  passing  perquisite. 
IOO 


The  Postmaster 

So  in  the  service  he  grew  old  and  gray, 

And  oft  he  put  the  stamps  on  upside  down ; 

Missorted  letters  in  a  strange,  vague  way, 

And    sent   Smith's    paper   out   to   Jones,    by 
Brown. 

Till  Special  Agent  Death  came  in  one  day,  - 
And  pouched  the  old  man  through  to  Grave 
yard  town. 

He  lay  quite  still ;    then  suddenly  he  cried — 

"Mail  closed!"  and  drew  his  salary  and  died. 


101 


After  the  Battle 


SPREAD  straw  and  tan-bark  on  the  street, 
Let  not  one  Sabbath  church  bell  ring; 
Put  shoes  of  list  on  horses'  feet, 
And  muffle  every  noisy  thing. 
Throttle  the  man  who  lifts  his  voice! 

Let  every  mouth  be  closed  and  dumb ; 
In  secret,  silent  thought  rejoice 

That  all  the  world  is  still  and  numb. 
1 02 


After  the  Battle 

Oh,  gracious  Silence!   At  thy  throne 

With  voiceless  lips  we  kiss  the  dust; 
Thy  noiseless  reign  with  joy  we  own, 

And  hail  thy  speechless  judgments  just ! 
For  past  is  our  Election  day — 

We  tell  it  thee  with  grateful  tears ! 
Send  us  no  other  one,  we  pray, 

For  eighteen  hundred  thousand  years ! 


103 


Children  of  the  Ark 


"Th1  unwieldy  elephant, 

To  make  them  mirth,  us'd  all  his  might,  and  wreathed 
His  lithe  proboscis." 

PARADISE  LOST. 


105 


The  Cricket 


I    SANG  the  budding  spring  away, 
And  played  while  summer  roses  bloomed, 
I  danced  through  Autumn's  splendid  sway, 
And  when  November's  shadows  gloomed 
And   skies   and  hills,    and  all   the  woodland 

throng 

Laughed  at  my  dancing  feet  and  merry  song, 
107 


The  Cricket 


I  mocked  the  toiling  ant  with  scorn ; 

I  sang,  but  wrought  not,  with  the  bee ; 
I  wooed  the  joyous  birds  at  morn, 

Danced  at  the  June  flies'  jubilee; 
Nor  dreamed,  or  knew,  or  ever  cared  to  know 
That  Summer  flowers  would  fade  and  Winter 
blow. 

Now  Winter  comes,  I  have  no  care, 

I  ask  no  ant  to  give  me  room  ; 
I  sue  no  bee  for  dainty  fare, 

I  laugh  and  sing  at  Winter's  gloom ; 
And  that  the  Summer  time  I  danced  away 
Brings  no  regret  to  me  this  Winter's  day. 

ENVOI. 

For  this  is  the  season,  as  you  may  conjecture, 
That  is  Summer   for   actor,    and    singer   and 

printer ; 
So    I    stick    up  the   posters — announce   a   New 

Lecture — 

I'm  one  of  the  Crickets  that  sing  in  the  Win 
ter! 

I^Bb 

,08  £ 

(1 

;// 


f] 

*        ••* 


The  Main-Hatch 


A  MINSTREL  am  I  of  a  single  lay, 
**  But  I  sing  it  the  whole  day  long, 
In  the  lonely  coop,  on  the  crowded  way, 

I  warble  my  simple  song. 
Only  an  egg,  with  its  pure  white  shell — 

The  sea  has  no  pearl  more  fair — 
And  over  that  spheroid  my  cackles  I  tell, 
And  my  feat  diurnal  declare. 
109 


a 

Js 

A 


./> 


The  Main-Hatch 


Oh,  a  frail,  weak  thing  is  my  ovate  gem, 

As  it  lies  in  my  straw-lined  nest; 
But  it  raketh  the  orator,  stern  and  stem, 

When  it  catcheth  him  on  the  crest. 
There  is  might  in  its  weakness,  for  lo,  when  it 
goes 

Down  the  long  afternoon  of  its  life — 
It  can  easily  lead  a  strong  man  by  the  nose, 

When  it  mixeth  itself  in  the  strife. 


I  am  no  bravo ;   the  hawk  that  swoops 

Must  seek  for  me  under  the  thatch ; 
Yet  in  open  field  or  in  private  coop 

I  always  come  up  to  the  scratch. 
So  my  rondeau  I  cackle — too  young  to  crow — 

While  the  Fates  may  permit  me  to  speak, 
For  although  my  son  never  sets,  yet  I  know 

That  my  days  may  be  ended  necks  tweak. 


1 10 


Dogmatic  Philosophy 


MY  faithful  dog, — his  actions  fairly  talk — 
Gamboled  about  me  on  our  morning  walk, 
And  being  frivolous — for  he  was  young, 
Pursued,  with  flying  feet  and  clamorous  tongue, 
The    circling    birds    that    skimmed     along    the 

ground 

And   teased,    with    whistles   shrill,    the    baying 
hound. 

ill 


&*' 


k<^ 


Dogmatic  Philosophy 


He  snapped  at  flies,  slow  buzzing  in  the  air, 
And  chased  the  chirping  crickets  here  and  there. 
At  length,  with  sudden  leap,  in  merry  play, 
He  caught  a  hornet,  passing  by  that  way, 
.  And  let  him  go  again,  and  moaned  and  sighed  ; 
And  scraped  his  jaws  upon  the  earth,  and  cried  ; 
And  shouted  "Fire!" — as  a  dog  might  shout 
And  ran  before  the  wind,  and  put  about; 
And    shrieked ;     and    gnawed    the    trees ;     and 

snapped  and  rolled; 

Panted  and  shivered,  as  with  heat  and  cold; 
And  would  not  frisk,  nor  laugh,  nor  bound,  nor 

play, 

And  was  not  merry  any  more  that  day. 
"Alas,"  said  I,  "how  many  times  have  I        v^ 
Caught  at  some  gauzy  pleasure  flitting  by, 
And  thought" —  but  at  this  point  we  reached 

the  spot 

Where  all  that  hornet's  family  lived,  and  I  for 
got 

Just  what  I  thought,  and  what  I  sought  to  say, 
In  one  wild,  dog-like  rush  to  get  away. 

112 


^% 


Orphan  Born 


JAM  a  lone,  unfathered  chick, 
Of  artificial  hatching 
A  pilgrim  in  a  desert  wild, 
By  happier,  mothered  chicks  reviled, 
From  all  relationships  exiled, 
To  do  my  own  lone  scratching. 


Orphan  Born 


Fair  Science  smiled  upon  my  birth 

One  raw  and  gusty  morning ; 
But  ah,  the  sounds  of  barn-yard  mirth 
To  lonely  me  have  little  worth ; 
Alone  am  I  in  all  the  earth — 

An  orphan  without  borning. 

Seek  I  my  mother?     I  would  find 

A  heartless  personator ; 
A  thing  brass-feathered,  man  desi 
With  steam-pipe  arteries  intermin 
And  pulseless  cotton  batting  linedj^ 
A  patent  incubator. 

It  wearies  me  to  think,  you  see — 

Death  would  be  better,  rather — 
Should  downy  chicks  be  hatched  of  me, 
By  Fate's  most  pitiless  decree, 
My  P'ping  pullets  still  would  be 

With  never  a  grandfather. 


114 


Orphan   Born 

And  when  to  earth  I  bid  adieu 
To  seek  a  planet  greater, 

I  will  not  do  as  others  do, 

Who  fly  to  join  the  ancestral  crew, 

For  I  will  just  be  gathered  to 
My  Incubator. 


\ 


A  Cataracket 


T   LOVE,  thee,  cat;    I  love  thy  pleasant  ways; 
*      I  love  to  see  thee  dozing  round  the  house ; 
I  love,  through  all  these  dreamy  summer  days, 
To  watch  thee  circumvent  the  bashful  mouse. 
I  love  to  hear  thy  calm,  contented  purr, 
And  stroke  thy  coat — so  near,  and  yet  so  fur. 
116 


A  Cataracket 


But  I  love  not,  when  starry  night  is  come, 
To  hear  thee,  cat,  with  velvet-padded  hoof, 

Rapid  as  taps  upon  a  muffled  drum, 

Or  summer  rain  drops  pattering  on  the  roof. 

For,  when  thy  claws  slip  from  their  velvetjacket, 

Thou  art  a  wild  Niagara-cat;    a  cat  a  racket. 

Grimalkin  !      When  the  radiant  moonlight  falls    : 
In  silver  splendor  on  the  haunted  shed, 

Oft  must  I  listen  to  thy  plaintive  wauls 

That  drive  sweet  sleep  from  my  distracted  bed. 

It  wakes  mine  ire  to  hear  thy  long-drawn  shout — 

"Maria!      Oh,  Maria!      Comin'  out?" 


Why  dost  thou  rage,  vain  cat,  when  sable  night 
With  "dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air"? 

Why  dost  thou  climb  the  roof  to  yell  and  fight. 
And  rip,  and  spitx  and  snort,  and  claw  and 
swear? 

Dost  thou  not  blush,  oh  cat,  when  rosy  dawn 

Sees  half  thy  fur  clawed  out,  and  one  eye  goner 


117 


A  Cataracket 

Go,  gentle  cat;   go  from  my  lap  and  prowl 
Upon  the  dizzy  woodshed's  beetling  height; 

On  lofty  dormer  window  sit  and  howl 

And  everything  that  weareth  cat-fur,  fight ; 

And  I  will  love  thee  none  the  less,  for  that, 

Because  I  would  not  have  thee  less  a  cat. 

Yet  hear !      When  midnight  pauses  in  the  sky, 
I  will  arise  from  sleepless  couch  of  mine, 

And  guided  by  thine  animated  cry, 

And  by  thine  eyes  so  brilliantly  that  shine — 

I  will  take  down  my  trusty  culverin, 

And  with  six  pounds  of  buckshot  fill  thy  skin. 


118 


Lines  to  a  Mule 


THE  smile  of  spring  is  blessing  all  the  hills, 
The  robin's  note  sounds  from  the  shad 
owed  vale ; 
The  blue  bird's  matin  all  the  morning  fills, 

The  brown  leaves  rustle  in  the  greening  trail ; 
While  thy  insistent  song  with  gladsome  ring 
Whoops  o'er  the  fields,  a  live,  reboant  thing. 
119 


Lines  to  a  Muic 


Full  well  I  know  thy  carol ;    many  a  day 

I've  waked  at  dawn  to  hear  thee  cry  for  feed. 

And,  startled  by  thy  sudden,  clamorous  bray, 
Have  execrated  all  thy  patient  breed ; 

And  I  have  wept  to  see  thy  restless  hoof 

Lift  a  man  through  the  raftered  stable  roof. 

Yet  art  thou  kind.      I  never  knew  thee,  mule, 
Kick  man   or  Indian  whom   thou   couldst  not 

reach ; 
And  thou  hast  learned   in  life's  hard,  friendless 

school 

Alway  to  practice  better  than  you  preach  ; 
For  while,  with  drooping  lids  you  seem  to  sleep. 
Still  do  your  heels  their  tireless  vigils  keep 


I2O 


Bucolics 


"As  1  read 

I  hear  the  crowing  cock,  I  hear  the  note 
Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every  page 
Rise  odors  of  ploughed  field  or  flowery  mead." 

LONGFELLOW. 


121 


The  Pierian  Spring 


DEAR,  vernal  flowers,  they  bloom  again 
Like  echoes  of  old  spring  days  gone, 
And  mossy  hillside,  shadowy  glen 

Break  out  in  beauty  like  the  dawn. 
The  plumy  fern,  the  leaf  and  bud 

Bend  'neath  the  kisses  of  the  breeze 
And  "Spanish  Mixture  for  the  Blood" 
Smiles  from  the  fences,  rocks  and  trees. 
123 


The  Pierian  Spring 

Balm-breathing  Spring !    what  tender  hope 
Exhales  from  the  awakening  soil. 

How   "Bolus1  Anti-Bilious  Dope" 
And  "Doctor  Gastric's  Blizzard  Oil" 

Bid  fainting  nature  wake  and  smile, 
For  all  her  beauties  fill  us  less 

With  thoughts  of  violets  than  with  vile 
"Root  Cures"  for   "Chronic  Biliousness." 

If  .to  the  wooded  nook  we  stray 

Where  every  swelling  germ  is  huge 
With  life,  each  gray-browed  rock  will  say 
"Use  Philogaster's  Vermifuge." 
If  from  these  sylvan  bowers  we  fly, 

We  fly,  alas,  to  other  ills; 
The  farm-yard  gates  and  barn-doors  cry 
"Take  Ginsengrooter's  Liver  Pills." 


Each  blue-eyed  violet  hides  a  "Pill,' 
There's  scent  of  "Rhubarb"  in  the  air; 

'Rheumatic  Plasters"   crown  the  hill 
And  "Bitters"  blossom  everywhere; 

124  fZ....^, 


.  Rs 


iu 


LIVER 


The   Pierian  Spring 

With  "Ague  Cures"  the  eye  is  seared. 

The  air  is  thick — or  thin,  I   meant— 
For  Nature's  face  and  clothes  are  smeared 

With  "Universal  Liniment." 


125 


'.? •"IX^-'V^--' 


March 

COME,   Phyllis,  the   reign  of  the  winter   is 
past, 

Tis  time  for  the  earth  to  awaken ; 
The  sheep  are  all  frozen  in  Spring's  early  blast 
And  the  shepherd  with  ague  is  shaken. 


The  ice  on  the  river  is  eight  inches  thick, 

But  the  time  of  the  Winter  is  over ; 
We  can  stroll  to  the  stack-yard  and  nose  round 

the  rick 

For  the  perfume  of  last  summer's  clover. 
126 


March 


Though   the  groundhog  and  crocus  creep  into 
their  holes 

It's  Spring,  and  the  almanac  shows  it; 
Though  a  polar  wave  over  the  continent  rolls 

It's  Spring !   And  we  don't  care  who  knows  it ! 


127 


j  The  Seedsman 


T   T  OW  doth  the  busy  nurseryman 
*•  *      Improve  each  shining  hour; 
And  peddle  cions,  sprouts  and  seeds 
Of  every  shrub  and  flower. 

How  busily  he  wags  his  chin, 
How  neat  he  spreads  his  store, 

And  sells  us  things  that  never  grew 
And  won't  grow  any  more. 
128  . 


The  Seedsman 

Who  showed  the  little  man  the  way 

To  sell  the  women  seed? 
Who  taught  him  how  to  blow  and  lie 

And  coax  and  beg  and  plead? 

He  taught  himself,  the  nurseryman  ; 

And  when  his  day  is  done 
We'll  plant  him  where  the  lank  rag  weeds 

Will  flutter  in  the  sun. 

But  oh,  although  we  plant  him  deep 

Beneath  the  buttercup, 
He's  so  much  like  the  seed  he  sells, 

He  never  will  come  up. 


129 


In  Time  of  Peace 

r  I  ^HE  pipe  of  the  quail  in  the  stubblefield 

'        The  scent  of  the  new-mown  hay ; 
And  all  day  long  the  shout  and  the  song 
Of  the  reapers  so  far  away. 


> 


The  rasping  racket  amid  the  grain, 


r  f  t^ie  reaping  machine, 

nd  ever  again  the  howl  of  pain 
Comes  over  the  meadow  green. 


In  Time  of  Peace 

Oh,  sweet  is  the  field  where  the  meadow  lark  flits 

And  sings,  as  it  soars  and  dives, 
Where  the  farm-hand  sits  and  yells  as  he  gits 

His  fingers  among  the  knives. 

No  longer  we  hear  on  the  hill-slopes  near 

The  scythe-stone's  clinkety-clink, 
But  the  mowing  machine  cuts  his  leg  off,  I  ween, 

Or  ever  the  man  can  think. 

With  fears  and  with  tears  the  good  wife  hears 

The  goodman  say  "Good-bye," 
To  return  in  sooth  with  a  horse-rake  tooth 

A  foot  and  a  half  in  his  eye. 

When  the  threshers  come  in  with  halloo  and  din, 
How  tempered  with  sorrow  the  hour, 

As  they  linger  to  scan  what  is  left  of  the  man 
Mixed  up  with  the  eight-horse  power. 


In  Time  of  Peace 

Oh,  listen  and  weep  !      From  over  the  hills 

What  voice  for  the  doctor  begs? 
'Tis  the  plough-boy  who  fell,  and  shocking  to 
tell, 

The  steam-plough  ran  over  his  legs. 


Thus,  all  day  long  with  rollicking  song 
They  laugh  at  these  dread  alarms, 

Though  the  peaceful  field  a  war-harvest  yield 
Of  fingers,  and  legs,  and  arms. 


T'hen  breathe  a  prayer  for  a  poor  old  granger 
Whose  mangled  limbs  have  borne  him  to  the 
fence, 

Who  braves,  with  royal  courage,  untold  danger 
And  runs  his  farm  with  modern  implements. 


132 


May  Day 


COME,  Pepita,  Phyllis,  Griselda,  Jeannette, 
Evangeline,  Heloise,  Fifine,  Susette, 
Rebecca,  Nan,  Marguerite,  Clara,  Babette — 

Or  whatever  your  name  is; 

Come,  get  on  your  mackintosh,  poncho,  umbrell, 
Clogs,    overshoes,    pattens,    "gums,"    mufflers 

as  well, 

And  hey  !   for  the  green  woods  !      I  may  as  well 
tell— 

A-Maying  the  game  is. 
jt  133 


May  Day 


We'll  twine  our  May  garlands  beneath  the  green 

tree, 
We'll  make  the  swamp  ring  with  our  innocent 

glee, 
We'll  wade  round  our  May-pole,  light-hearted 

and  free, 

Where  naught  but  delight  is ! 
Then  homeward  we'll  dance,  when  the  twilight 

is  come, 

With  diphtheria,  croup,  and  pneumonia  dumb, 
With  phthisis,  lumbago  and  rheumatiz-zum 
And  peritonitis. 

O 


Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 


T  T  is  an  Ancient  Miller, 

1      And  he  stoppeth  two  or  three ; 

"By  thy  mild  blue  eye  and  thy  floury  coat, 

Now  wherefore  stopp 'st  thou  me? 
The  Christmas  turkey  fast  doth  brown, 

The  revels  soon  begin  ; ' ' 
' '  I  have  a  note  falls  due  in  town 

And  I  must  lift  it  in; " 
"And  I  am  fain  to  catch  a  train, 

So  I  must  run  like  sin." 
135 


Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 


He  shooteth  off  his  He  holds  them  with  his  mealy  hand, 

little  joke,  at  which 

his  audience  shed          A  grinding  face  hath  he  — 

"tears,  idle  tears."    (lj 


When  I  have  tolled  it  thee." 
He  chuckled  hoarsely  at  his  jest, 

And  sadly  out  of  tram, 
Each  halted  guest,  with  pain  suppressed 

An  overfalling  dam. 

His  glittering  cock-eye  held  them  fast, 

The  audience  keep-          WhciiaS  his  tale  he  Spake  J 
eth  up  a  lively 

thinkin'.  "He's  out  of  balance,  first  and  last," 

Quoth  they,  "just  hear  him  grate." 


But  the  A.  M.  let-  "I  am  an  Ancient  Miller  Man, 


teth  himself  go 
Gallagher. 


And  every  hundred  years 
My  bedstone  cold  I  leave  to  hold 

Converse  with  mortal  ears. 
The  smell  is  sweet  of  growing  wheat, 

When  dimpling  fields  I  see; 
And  the  lark's  song  the  hills  along 

Is  psalm  of  praise  to  me ; 
136 


Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 


He  droppeth  into  a 
reminiscent  strain, 
which  is  great  medi 
cine  for  a  man  who 
enjoyeth  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice. 


Bully  for  the  quail ! 


The  sound  of  the 
jolly  thresher  is 
never  muffled. 


The  swaying  reapers  bend  and  sing 

Amid  the  golden  grain ; 
I  hear  their  songs  who  toil  in  throngs 

Around  the  harvest  wain  ; 
The  quail's  low  whistle  softly  calls 

Above  the  stubbled  plain  ; 
With  royal  nod  the  golden  rod 

Approves  the  sumac's  stain; 
I  hear  once  more  on  puncheon  floor 

The  hard  flail's  muffled  sound, 
The  mirthful  roar  that  tells  once  more 

The  threshers  are  around  ; 
The  flying  chaff  and  lighter  laugh 

Go  drifting  down  the  wind ; 
But  golden  wheat  and  love-words  sweet —  Come  ofR 

The  best  is  left  behind. 
Down  the  long  slope,  sunlit  with  hope, 

The  croaking  wain  draws  near, 
And  the  clacking  mill  and  the  singing  rill  whoa,  January 

Are  the  music  sweet  I  hear. 


137 


Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 


He  getteth  his  sec-  "Over  the  low  half-door  I  see 

ond  wind,  and—  , 

The  miller  s  daughter  lean; 
In  sun  and  shade  the  sweetest  maid 

By  mortal  vision  seen. 
Describeth  a  truly  The  good,  gray  miller  who  bends  to  kiss 

good  man  with  no 

flies  on  him.  The  maid  as  he  goes  by, 

With  honor's  trace  on  his  manly  face, 
And  honesty  in  his  eye, 


"Who  doth  proudly  wear  his  silver  hair, 

'IjllA  crown  of  integritee — 

That  all  may  say,  who  pass  his  way, 

'A  man  of  men  is  he' — 
Is  as  like  to  the  man  your  eyes  now  scan, 

As  a  man  to  himself  can  be." 
And  the  miller  bowed  to  the  silent  crowd — 
"Did  you  say  rats?"  quoth  he. 


No  encore. 


The  A.  M.  cusseth   "Odds  boddikins  !    'Y  gum  !    Gogswouns  ! 

and  eke   he   swear-  ,,  .  ,          .  ,  ,,          ,         • 

e-h  I<oregad!      Ah,  well-a-day ! 

Marry  come  up !      I'fackins!      Zounds! 
Gadzooks !      Alack-a-day ! 
'38 


Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 


"The  bolted  flour,  like  snow-cloud  flake,     He  telieth  how  his 

mother  used  to  could 

Fell  down  as  soft  and  fair ;  bake  bread  (Ting 

The  wheaten  cake  the  maids  did  bake 

Was  lighter  than  the  air ; 
And  the  new-made  bread,  the  good  man 

said, 
Was  soothing  as  a  prayer. 


"From  Boston  town  of  great  renown, 

And  wondrous  bookeric, 
A  maid  mature,  of  aspect  dure, 

Went  teaching  cookerie. 


The  cooking  school 
woman  breaks  out, 


"Down    dropped     the     pan,     the    sifter     And  all  the  women 

leave  the  reserva- 

dropped ;  tion,  and 

Down  fell  the  kneading  trough; 
The  broom  down  dropt,  all  work  was  stopt, 
And  all  the  women  off. 


"From  house  about,  with  laugh  and  shout,  Take  the  war  path, 

while  the  braves 


They  cooked  from  morn  to  night, 
While  men  stood  hungrily  without, 
And  could  not  get  a  bite. 


stay  at  home 


w 


Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 


And  chew  the  cud   "Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

of  bitter    memories 

and  prospect  for  To  hunger  gaunt  consigned, 

The  men  made  moan  and  stayed  at  home, 
And  ate  what  they  could  find. 


But  hope  deferred   "They  breakfasted  upon  a  sigh, 

maketh  them  tired. 

And  gnawed  at  crusts  of  bread, 

Seiah!      ^^       Whiles  in  the  kneading  trough  so  dry, 
Salt-rising  tears  they  shed. 


when  the  women   "When  from  the  school  the  women  came- 

come  marching  Qh     horrjb,e  to    tdl  j 

home  again,  they 


have  learned  to        j-[e  wfao  Would  eat  their  proffered  treat 
Bade  health  and  joy  farewell ! 

Put  the  in-curves      "The  good,  white  flour  the  miller  made- 

onthe  French  twist, 

and  to  make  Fit  food  for  gods  and  men — 

Ambrosial  bran — no  human  man 
Would  ever  bolt  again. 


140 


*" 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 

"The  biscuit  which  his  sister  cooks, 

Along  with  other  things, 
The  schoolboy  packs  in  with  his  books 

And  slings  them  from  his  slings. 


Hard  finish  biscuit, 
durable  and  useful. 


"Bridecake,  besides,  wrought  by  the 
brides, 

Half  tanned  and  wire-sewed — 
The  supervisor  oft  provides 

For  mending  of  the  road. 


Likewise  the  fa 
mous  waterproof, 
elastic,  hand-made 
angel  cake,  that 


"Qh,  friend  of  mine,  that  was  a  time 

That  tried  the  soles  of  men. 
Their  swollen  throats  and  stomachs'  coats 

Were  tried  by  leather,  then. 


Beats  the  Dutch, 
and  everybody 
knows  whom  the 
Dutch  beat. 


"Oh,  sweeter  far  in  those  dark  days, 

To  quiet  hunger's  wants, 
It  was  to  take  my  reckless  ways 

To  Chinese  restaurants. 


In  his  misery  he 
joineth  himself  un 
to  the   pagan   hea 
then;  and 


141 


Can  not  understand 
what  the  heathen 
have  to  rage  about. 


Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 

"Oh,  sweeter  far  to  eat  a  rat 
By  some  more  Christian  name, 

Than  swallow  lead  disguised  as  bread, 
And  perish  just  the  same. 


He  exonerateth  the  "In  vain  the  honest  miller  grinds 

honest  miller  but  -in 

excommunicateth  I  he  finest  kind  of  flour, 

the  "wimmin."  .  ... 

If  wives  and  daughters  have  combined 
To  bake  it  sad  and  sour. 


Hepasseth  from          "He  loveth  best yOU    knOW  the  TCSt 

narrative  to  sermon          •,-,,.  .,  /       j  i   . 

and  so  Whose  wife,  so  fond  and  true, 

Goes  clear  up  head  by  baking  bread 
As  his  mother  used  to  do. 


Reacheth  "Final-      "He  liveth  best,   whose  wife    COoks  best, 

ly"  and  the  moral. 

All  things,  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  man  who  eateth  them  with  zest 
Loves  cook,  and  grub,  and  all." 


142 


Rime  of  the  Ancient  Miller 


The  Miller  Man,  he  checks  a  sigh, 

He  swalloweth  a  moan ; 
He  clasps  his  hand  upon  his  belt, 

And,  with  a  muffled  groan, 
He  fadeth  quite  from  out  their  sight 

And  they  are  left  alone. 


The  Ancient  Miller 
retireth  to  his  cold 
bedstone  to  conceal 
his  emotion,  and 
the  audience 


The  dinner's  cold,  the  train  hath  gone, 

The  note  hath  cooked  his  goose ; 
With  one  acclaim  the  guests  exclaim — 
"That  fellow's  bush  is  loose." 


Being  left,  vote  the 
lecturer  a  little  off. 


143 


Tempered  Levity 


"Joking  decides  great  things 
Stronglier  and  better  oft  than  earnest  can." 


HORACE. 


145 


Old  Wine  in  New  Bottles 

F^ROM  the  Book  of  Judges  as  I  read — 

"Make  me  a  sling,"  wee  Robbie  said, 
"Like  those  you  were  reading  about  in  there, 
That  hit  the  mark  to  the  breadth  of  a  hair. 


"And  make  another  for  Richard,  too, 
And  we'll  sling  as  the  Benjamites  used  to  do 
And  make  another  that  Baby  can  twirl — 
A  little  one,  mind — she's  only  a  girl." 
147 


Old  Wine  in  New  Bottles 

So  I  made  them  slings  like  unto  those          * 
Which  Benjamin  used  against  his  foes; 
"May  the  songs  of  victory  tune  your  breath 
Like  the  slingers  who  smote  Kir-haraseth  ! ' ' 


/ 
( 

o 


Q 


I  smiled  as  I  heard  the  exultant  cry 

Of  the  singing  slingers  marching  by  ; 

I  smiled  in  time, — oh,  foolish  man!  — 

For  I  smiled  no  more  when  the  right  began. 


The  pebbles  crashed  through  the  window  pane, 
They  rattled  down  on  the  roof  like  rain  ; 
They  pelted  poor  Sport  clear  out  of  the  play, 
And  battered  the  Rectory,  over  the  way. 

The  air  was  thick  with  the  flying  stones, 
And  vocal  with  shouts,  and  wails  and  groans; 
For  the  people  who  looked  and  the  people  who 

ran 
Were  peppered  alike  by  the   infantry  clan. 


148 


Old  Wine  in  New  Bottles 


Richard  and  Robert,  the  two  mighty  men, 
Were  slinging  six  ways  for  Sunday ;    but  then 
Baby  was  weeping — the  sweet  little  maid — 
For  she  slung-shot  herself  in  the  shoulder-blade 


Then  I  knew  that  no  right-handed  person  can 

bring 

Old  Benjamin's  left-handed  skill  to  a  sling; 
For  the  left-handed  aim  of  a  right-handed   man 
Distracts  a  projectile  as  nothing  else  can. 


And  the  world  suffers  much,  in  a  similar  way, 
From  well-meaning  men  in  their  serious  play; 
Naught  scatters  dismay  through  his  own  camp 

and  clan 
Like    the    left-handed   ^ling   of    a   right-handed 

man. 


J 


OY  of  the  Spring  time !    How  the  sun 
Smiled  on  the  hills  of  Burlington. 


The  breath  of  May!     And  the  day  was  fair, 
The  bright  motes  danced  in  the  balmy  air. 

The  sunlight  gleamed  where  the  restless  breeze 
Kissed  the  fragrant  blooms  on  the  apple  trees. 

His  beardless  cheek  with  a  smile  was  spanned 
As  he  stood  with  a  carriage-whip  in  his  hand. 

'5° 

•X 


Sisyphus 


Lightly  he  laughed  as  he  doffed  his  coat 
And  the  echoing  folds  of  the  carpet  smote. 

She  smiled  as  she  leaned  on  her  busy  mop, 
And  said  she  would  tell  him  when  to  stop. 

So  he  larruped  away  till  the  dinner  bell 
Gave  him  a  little  breathing  spell. 

But  he  sighed  when  the  tardy  clock  struck  one, 
And  she  said  that  his  carpet  was  most  half  done. 

Yet  he  lovingly  put  in  his  liveliest  licks, 
And  whipped  like  mad  until  half-past  six. 

When  she  said,  in  a  dubious  kind  of  way, 
That  she  "guessed  he  could  finish  that  side  next 
day." 

Then  all  that  day,  and  the  next  day,  too, 
The  fuzz  from  the  dustless  carpet  flew. 

And  she'd  give  it  a  look  at  eventide. 
And  say,  "Now  whip  on  the  other  side." 


Sisyphus 

So  the  new  days  came  as  the  old  days  went, 
And  the  landlord  came  for  his  regular  rent. 

While  the  neighbors  laughed  at  the  whup-zip- 

boom ! 
And   his  face   grew  shadowed    with   clouds   of 

gloom. 

Till  at  last,  one  dreary  winter  day, 
Spurning  his  life-work,  he  fled  away. 

Over  the  fence  and  down  the  street, 
Out  into  the  Yon  with  footsteps  fleet. 

And  never  again  did  the  morning  sun 
Smile  on  him  beating  his  carpet  drum. 

Though  sometimes  a  neighbor  would  say  with  a 

yawn — 
"Where  has  the  carpet  martyr  gone?" 


;         Years  twice  twenty  had  come  and  passed 

And  the  carpet  mouldered  in  sun  and  blast ; 

I  /,f,  Iliffii 


•iimvuc^ "    i 

fT  <  '  i  n 

U,  I-.  js  f  *•       it 

i<n.ij  !•>   ,i  -yj  i 


152 


Sisyphus 


For  never  yet  since  that  May  grown  old 
Had  hand  been  laid  on  its  edge  or  fold. 

Over  the  fence  a  gray-haired  man, 
Cautiously  dim,  clum,  clem,  dome,  clam; 

He  found  him  a  switch  in  the  old  woodpile 
And  he  gathered  it  up  with  a  sad,   grim  smile. 

A  flush  passed  over  his  face  forlorn, 

As  he  gazed  at  the  carpet,  stained  and  torn. 

Then  he  struck  it  a  most  resounding  thwack, 
Till  the  startled  air  gave  its  echoes  back. 

Out  of  the  window  a  white  face  leaned, 
While  a  palsied  hand  the  dim  eyes  screened. 

At    once    she    knew    him  —  she    gasped  —  she 

sighed — 
"A  little  more  on  the  under  side!" 

Right  down  on  the  ground  his  stick  he  throwed, 
He    shivered,   and     muttered  —  "Well,    I    am 
blowed ! ' ' 


Then  he  turned  him  away  with  a  heart  full  sore,  r* 


And  he  never  was  seen,  not  none,  no  more. 

153 


Sic  Transit 


,  listen 'to  the  water-wheel  through  all 
the  live-long  day" — 
Your  salary  for  work  will  stop  when  you  begin 

to  play ; 
/     The  fellow  at  the  ladder's  top — to  him  the  hon- 

%/i\        ors  &°« 

The  beginner   at  the  bottom,  nobody  cares  to 
know ; 

154 


r*5 


Sic  Transit 


No  good  is  any  "Has  Been,"  in  country  or  in 
town — 

Nobody  cares  how  high  you've  been,  if  you 
have  tumbled  down. 

If  you  have  been  the  President,  and  can't  be 
any  more, 

You  may  run  a  farm,  or  teach  a  school,  or  keep 
a  country  store ; 

No  one  will  ask  about  you ;  you  never  will  be 
missed — 

The  mill  will  only  grind  for  you  while  you  sup 
ply  the  grist. 

r 


Bravest  of  the  Brave 

I  SEE  no  more  the  gray  an'  blue 
'At  I  seed  in  the  war  I  fit  into; 
But  I  read  in  the  papers  now  an'  then, 
They're  fitin'  it  still  weth  the  cold  steel  pen. 

I  read  the  pieces,  an'  often  think 
In  all  this  eefusion  of  gallant  ink, 
How  ever'  one  of  'em  jest  leaves  out 
The  name  of  the  bravest  man  'at  font. 
156 


Bravest  of  the  Brave 

There's  fellers  a  writin'  about  the  war 
'At  nobody  ever  knowed  before; 
An'  never  a  word,  you  understand, 
'Bout  Corp'l  Alexander  Rand. 

In  ever'  paper,  west  an'  east, 
Them  writes  the  most  'at  fit  the  least; 
But  they  was  cheers  an'  carnage  when 
Brave  Corp'l  Rand  led  on  his  men. 

When  Grant  was  in  that  awful  mess 

A  fightin'  in  the  wilderness, 

Says  Meade,  "Who  bears  the  battle's  heft?" 

Says  Grant,  "It's  Rand,  'at  holds  the  left." 

\Vhen  Rebeldom  was  out  o'  j'int, 
An'  Lincoln  come  from  City  P'int, 
"Well,  well!"  says  he,  weth  honest  joy, 
"There's  Corp'l  Rand,  of  Eelinoy  !  " 


Bravest  of  the  Brave 

An'  yit  I  ain't,  ner  you  ain't  seen 

His  pictur  in  a  magazine ; 

The  bravest  man  'at  ever  drored 

In  Freedom's  cause  a  soldier's  sword. 

The  keenest,  slickest,  bravest  man 
To  plan — er  execute  a  plan ; 
Ef  long  as  time  his  fame  don't  stand, 
My  name  ain't  Alexander  Rand! 


158 


The  Odd  I  See 


WHAT  time  Ulysses,  in  the  frosty  morn, 
Prepares   to  face  the  bleak  November 

storm , 

His  well-saved  winter  garmenture  he  seeks 
And  in  each  closet's  dark  recess  he  peeks. 
"Eheu,"  cries  he,  "my  ulster  is  not  here, 
Nor  in  their  place  my  heavy  boots  appear; 
My  sealskin  cap,  when  I  would  put  it  on, 
From  its  accustomed  peg  is  surely  gone. 
I  see  no  scarf ;    by  Venus  and  her  loves  ! 
Some  son  of  Mercury  hath  swiped  my  gloves ! 
159 


The  Odd  I  See 

Mehercule  !   who's  got  my  chest-protector? 

I'm  cleaned  out  by  some  vile  old-clothes  col 
lector  ! ' ' 

With  that  he  ripped,  and  roared,  and  fumed  and 
"swar, " 

While  all  his  household  looked  on  from  afar. 


To  him  at  length,  with  grieving,  downcast  eyes, 
Faithful  Penelope,  distracted,  cries: 
"Ulysses,  peace!      Such  actions  more  become 
A  Trojan  steeped  in  old  New  England  rum. 
Why  wag  thy  tongue    in    neither    rhyme   nor 

reason, 

For  things  that  are  so  useless  out  of  season? 
Why  should  a  storm-coat  cumber  up  the  wall 
When  August  sun-rays  fiercely  on  us  fall? 
Why  should  thy  winter  boots  impede  our  way 
When  summer  sun-strokes  hold  their  fatal  sway? 
Go  to;    when  April's  days  were  growing  long 
A  plaster-paris  peddler  came  along ; 
Quick  for  his  wares  I  changed  each  winter  robe, 
sent  him  burdened  down  the  dusty  road. 

*4fc»     ,    ,m.  I  6O 


CD 


The  Odd  I  See 

Me^hinks,  forsooth,  thy  senseless  rant  '11  cease, 
When    thou    behold 'st    our  plastered    mantel 
piece." 


He  views  the  mantel;   on  his  knotted  face, 
Frowns  scatter  smiles,  and  smiles  the  dark  frowns 

chase. 

He  pauses  for  a  space,  then  sits  him  down 
And  makes  him  ready  for  a  trip  down  town. 
First  pulls,  goloshal  screens  from  slush  and  sleet, 
Two  plaster-paris  kittens  on  his  feet. 
Around  his  neck,  with  cotton  thread  he  ties 
A  snow-white  angel  with  the  bluest  eyes ; 
Napoleon,  with  his  crossed  arms  firmly  pressed, 
He  binds  upon  his  cough-affected  chest; 
Two  jet  black  dogs  with  gilded  collar  bands 
He  draws  for  gauntlets  on  his  sinewy  hands ; 
Last,  a  Pan-legged,  rampant  billy  goat 
Swings  o'er  his  shoulders  for  an  overcoat. 
Loud   laugh  the  gods,   as  down   the  street  he 

strides, 

And  e'en  Penelope  his  style  derides. 
161 


The  Putty  Man 

\/OU  may  reason  with  a  fool  till  his  muddled 

brain  grows  clear, 

You  may  teach  an  idiot  to  think  if  you  will  per 
severe  ; 
But  all  the  wisdom,  all  the  patience,  ever  learned 

or  planned 

Can't  teach  a  lesson  to  the  man  who  will  not 
understand. 

162 


The  Putty  Man 
It 

You  can  teach  a  pig  the  alphabet;  I  reckon,  if 
you  try, 

A  parrot  may  be  taught  to  read ;  a  man  may- 
learn  to  fly ; 

It's  possible  that  men  may  learn  to  twist  a  rope 
of  sand, 

But  the  angels  couldn't  teach  the  man  who  will 
not  understand. 


Some  patient  men  have  trained  the  restless  winds 

to  tow  our  ships ; 
The  deaf  man  hears  you  talking  by  the  motion 

of  your  lips ; 
And  men  have  broken  flees  to  harness — worked 

them  four  in  hand — 
But  omniscience  can  not  train  the  man  who  will 

not  understand. 

The  spiders   teach   us   how  to  put  up  screens 

against  the  flies, 
And  blind  men  teach  their  teachers  how  to  see 

without  their  eyes ; 
163 


The  Putty  Man 

Each  living  thing  in  all  the  world  has  answered 

some  demand 
Except  the  man  who  doesn't  want  to  learn  to 

understand. 


The  granite  rock  will  shatter  at  the  one  and  hun 
dredth  blow ; 

The  April  sun  will  smile  away  the  mountain  drift 
of  snow ; 

The  lightning's  bolt  will  split  in  twain  the  tough 
est  oak  on  land, 

But  nothing  shakes  the  putty  man  who  will  not 
understand. 

From  cold  and  sullen  flint  the  steel  can  waken 

sparks  of  fire, 
Bright  Freedom's  torch  the  slave's  dumb  soul 

with  courage  will  inspire ; 
The  miser  throws  away  his  gold  at  Duty's  stern 

command, 
But  nothing  thrills  the  man  of  dough,  who  will 

not  understand . 

164 


The  Putty  Man 

He's  there,  just  where  he's   always  been,  and 

there  he's  going  to  stay 
Through  time  and  half  eternity,  forever  and  a 

day; 
He   will   not  throb,   nor  quiver,   nor  thrill,   nor 

stand,  nor  fall, 
Nor  run,  nor  fly,  nor  laugh,  nor  cry;  he's  putty, 

that  is  all. 


I  reckon  when  at  last  old  Time  has  run  his  long, 
long  race, 

And  the  Universe  goes  crashing  off  in  endless, 
starless  space — 

There's  just  one  thing  that  won't  be  in  the  trans 
formation  grand — 

The  putty  man — he'll  see  it  all,  but  will  not  un 
derstand. 


On  the  Coast  of  Man 


]\ /I  Y  little  boy,  with  voice  and  eyes 
*•  *  *     Lures  me  with  boyish  plea  and  boast 
To  where  the  snow  clad  hills  arise 
And  reckless  urchins  swiftly  coast. 


Why  not?  Again  I  am  a  boy — 
I  am  his  brother,  not  his  sire; 

His  steel  shod  sled  our  common  toy, 
His  callow  pleasures  my  desire. 
1 66 


On  the  Coast  of  Man 

Down  glacial  slopes,  with  merry  cheers, 
We  sweep,  as  swallows  skim  the  shore 

I  throw  away  full  thirty  years 
And  I  am  ten  again;   no  more. 

My  youthful  pride  comes  back  to  me  ; 

My  boyhood's  skill  and  courage,  too; 
I  bid  the  Prince  stand  back  and  see 

The  way  his  father  used  to  do. 


Alone  I  climb  the  highest  hill  ; 

I  poise  the  sled  upon  its  brow  ; 
In  wonder  lost  the  Prince  stands  still, 

And  starts,  to  hear  my  warning  "Now!" 

Swifter  than  winged  thought  I  fly, 

But  when  my  flight  is  half-way  through, 

A  "thank-you-marm"  lifts  me  on  high 
Into  the  air  a  mile  or  two. 

And  down  that  dizzy,  reeling  track 
Like  twenty  men  and  sleds  I  go  ; 

While  up  my  legs  and  down  by  back 
Packs  fifteen  thousand  pounds  of  snow. 
167 


On  the  Coast  of  Man 

I  crawl  out  to  the  light  again 

And  feebly  share  the  Prince's  fun ; 

While  something  tells  my  whirling  brain 
That  I  am  really  forty-one. 

And  so  I  say,  "so  late  'tis  grown 
That  I  must  hurry  home  to  tea;" 

While  Robbie,  coasting  down  alone, 

Shouts  "  'Fraid  cat!  'fraid  cat!"  after  me. 


1 68 


The  Private's  Glory 

SWEET  little  Major,  he  mounts  my  knee, 
And  the  dancing  blue  eyes  look  at  me ; 
"Please  tell  me,  Popsie,  just  once  more, 
What  did  you  do  when  you  went  to  war?" 


And  then  I  tell  of  the  autumn  day 
When  the  Forty-seventh  marched  away; 
How  Miles  at  Corinth  field  went  down, 
And  Cromwell  fell  at  Jackson  town. 
169 


The  Private's  Glory 


"But  how  many  rebels,  tell  me  true,  \\  \\\  x 

Did  you  kill  then,  and  the  whole  war  through?"   1  V 

h  \  ^ 
And  I  tell  him  how,  with  martial  zest, 

Joe  Reed  blew  up  a  limber  chest. 

But  the  Major  sticks  to  his  question  still — 

"How  many  rebels  did  you  kill?" 

So  I  tell  him  how,  near  set  of  sun, 

The  charge  was  made  and  the  battle  won. 

And  how,  the  day  McClure  was  shot, 
And  Vicksburg's  fight  was  fierce  and  hot, 
Brave  Sam  Law  took  C  company  in 
Through  flame  and  smoke  and  batteries'  din. 

How  over  our  heads  the  battle  broke 
With  hurtling  shell  and  saber  stroke — 
But  he  wanted  to  know,  the  little  elf, 
"How  many  men  did  you  kill  yourself?" 

"Say,  tell  me,  Popsie,  say  you  will — 
How  many  rebels  did  you  kill?" 
So  I  tell  him  the  truth,  as  near  as  may  be. — 
"As  many  of  them  as  they  did  of  me." 
170 


AW 


Don't  Fret 


a-bloomin' 


ONCE  knew  a  woman  and  her  face  would  be 
i* 

Till  yet; 

But  whate'er  the  fates  would  do,  man,  in  a  way 
most  inhuman 

She'd  fret. 
If  her  husband  stayed  away  longer  than  a  half 

a  day, 
No  matter  what  the  messenger  he  sent  to  her 

might  say, 

If  her  children  disappeared  a  minute,  romping 
at  their  play- 
She  'd  fret. 
171 


Don't  Fret 


If  a  storm  came  up  and  thundered,  then  she 
worried  and  she  wondered — 

You  bet ! 

And  if  only  once  you  blundered  she  would  put 
it  down  a  hundred 

And  fret. 
She  fretted  and  she  stewed  o'er  the  microbes  in 

her  food, 
O'er  the  innocent  bacillus  in  her  system  she 

would  brood, 

She  would  magnify  her  troubles  to  their  great 
est  magnitude — 

And  fret. 

Every  day  without  a-trying  she  would  come  so 
near  a-dying 

She'd  fret; 

But  she'd  come  to  life  a-crying,  and  go  on  with 
her  sighing 

And  fret. 
Till  along  one  day  came  Death,  and  he  took 

away  her  breath — 

Having  nothing  left  to  fret  with  was  the  reason 
.\  for  her  death. 

'^''So  they  nailed  her  in  her  coffin,  and  the  stone 
above  her  saith, 

"Don't  fret." 
172 


James  Whitcomb  Riley 

(WETHOUT  ARY  APOLOGY) 

I  GOT  to  thinkin'  of  him — as  sometimes  a  fel 
ler  will — 
An'  the  night  he  give  a  lecture  to  the  folks  in 

Shelbyville, 
An'  we  set  up  'til  daylight,  as  them  lecterers 

sometimes  do — 

A-talkin'   of    a    hundred   things    that    mightn't 
int'rest  you; 

173 


James  Whitcomb  Riley 

I  mind  the  things  he  rattled  off,  that  night,  in 

boyish  glee, 

Recitations  he  recited  to  an  audience  of  me; 
How  I  laughed  ontil  the  landlord  come  an'  ast 

us  to  be  still — 
So  I  got  to  thinkin'  of  him,  an'  that  night  at 

Shelbyville. 

Then  he'd  kindo'  quit  his  nonsense,  an'    we'd 

settle  down  a  spell, 
Tell  Jim   'ud  turn  upon  me  an'   begin  agin — 

"D'ev  tell 
'Bout  the  time  I  went  to  Franklin  fer  the  Baptist 

college  folks?" 
An'  I'd  stretch  my  mouth  acrost  my  face  all 

ready  fer  the  jokes ; 
But  he'd  branch  off  in  a  story  'bout  the  "Merry 

Workers"  band, 
Thet,  onless  you  knowed  the  " Workers,'*  you 

c'd  hardly  understand; 


174 


James  Whitcomb  Riley 

I  c'd  hear  myself  a  swallerin',   the   room   'ud 

seem  so  still — 
So  I  got  to  thinkin'  of  him,  an'   that  night  at 

Shelbyville. 


got  to  thinkin'  of  him — like  'twas  jest  a  year 

ago— 

Per  time,  that  flies  so  fast  in  dreams,  in  alma 
nacs  is  slow ; 
^    He  was  workin'  like  a  beaver,  lectur'n  here  and 

lectur'n'  there, 
An'  a  writin'  on  the  railroad  cars,  in  taverns — 

ever 'where — 
Printin'  poems  in  the  papers,  speakin'  pieces  at 

the  fairs — 
An'  him  an'  me  a  travelin'  now  an'  then  around 

in  pairs ; 
An'  he  seemed  to  think  'at  he  was  no  account 

at  all — but  still 
I  got  to  thinkin'  of  him,  an'  that  night  at  Shel- 

byville. 


175 


James  Whitcomb  Rilev 


got  to  thinkin'   of  him  an'   the  happy  "Days 

r        „    ,, 
Gone  By, 

Tell  the  sweet  "Old  Fashioned  Roses"  seemed 

to  bloom  agin  —  an'  die  ; 
I  hear  him  talk  agin  about  "My  Bride  that  Is  to 

Be," 
When  he  come  to  "Griggsby  Station"  jest  to 

have  a  night  with  me  ; 
I  can  see  him   settin'   down  agin  to  give  the 

"Prince"  a  rock, 
When  "The  Frost  was  on  the  Pumpkin  and  the 

Fodder  in  the  Shock;" 
An'  I  hear  a  laughin'  voice  I  loved,  with  music 

in  its  trill  — 
So  I  got  to  thinkin'  of  him  an'  that  night  at 

Shelby  ville. 

An'  I  set  an'  wonder,  sometimes,  if  I  know  jest 

what  it  means, 
When  I  see  'em  print  his  poetry  in  all  the  mag 

azines  ; 


176 


James  Whitcomb  Riley 

An'  I  see  him  on  the  platform  with  the  James 

and  Howells  set, 
An'  hear  the  people  sayin'  "He's  the  best  one 

of  'em  yet!" 
An'  I  keep  a  winkin'  back  the  tears  that  make 

my  fool  eyes  shine, 
Fer   I  couldn!t  feel  no  prouder  ef  he'd  ben  a 

boy  of  mine ; 
Fer  he's  jest  the  same  old  Riley,  an'  he'll  be 

the  same  Jim  still — 
'At  he  was  the  night  'at  him  an'   me  set  up  at 

Shelbyville ! 


177 


\    N 


WHAT  time  the  winter  sun  is  low, 
When  floods  are  high  and  trains  are  slow, 
With  joy  each  glad  committee-man 
The  lecturer's  half-guessed  features  scan. 


For  joy  sets  all  their  hearts  a-flame ; 
They're  glad  he's  come;   he's  glad  he  came; 
It  makes  a  waiting  audience  glum 
To  be  informed — "He  didn't  come." 
178 


Finis 

And  when,  the  dreary  lecture  o'er, 
They  settle  down  for  chat  once  more, 
First  from  their  questioning  lips  he'll  hear — 
"And  now,  where  do  you  go  from  here?" 

So  much  depends  on  that,  you  know, 
Whether  to  club  or  bed  he'll  go; 
Their  plans  depend  on— so  they  say — 
How  far  his  next  place  is  away. 

The  new  born  friendships,  pleasant  chat, 

Song,  jest  and  story,  and  all  that 

Are  long  or  short,  as  may  appear 

His  answer — "Where  d'ye  go  from  here?" 

"Where  do  you  go  from  here,  good  friend? 
When  does  our  meeting  have  an  end? 
Hail  and  farewell !      Your  love  is  dear — 
But  say,  Where  do  you  go  from  here?" 

"Say,  when  the  next  place  greets  you  fair, 
Will  you  hear  our  voices  calling  there? 
Will  you  think  of  us,  be  it  far  or  near, 
In  the  place  you're  going  to  from  here?" 
179 


Finis 

And  so,  some  day,  when  the  sun  is  low, 
And  the  trains  of  Time,  as  the  schedules  go, 
Are  slowing  up  to  the  station  gate, 
And  the  clock  hands  point  to  the  hour  of  Fate; 

When  the  scents  of  the  evening  damps  arise 
And  the  stars  come  out  in  the  tranquil  skies, 
When  the  engine  bell  rings  soft  and  slow  . 
And  the  trainmen  silently  come  and  go ; 


When  the  jest  and  laughter  that  lived  with  him 
Are  hushed  in  the  station  lights  so  dim, 
They  will  bend  to  whisper — "The  end  is  near — 
I  wonder,  where  docs  he  go  from  here?" 


180 


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